Collection of Short Stories
by Petty Officer First Class Boo
Summary: These are a collection of short stories that will be written. Those not fitting the timeline of the main ones I write will be submitted here. Enjoy. Realistic.
1. Mistakes

Mistakes

Navy SEAL Chief Petty Officer First Class Ryan Wolfkill had been around the world. For twelve years he has been serving with SEAL Team Six's Delta Team. He's seen it all, assassinations, security detail, high risk and high value target extractions and not to mention, sky diving from 30,000 feet and diving out from submarines. But, what happens when you have to answer for a mistake of a few?

On April 4th, 2014, a small, but secure, bank in Rome was a target of a terrorist group. Their objective was to retrieve a high explosive compound for their latest suicide bombing streak. Delta Team was sent to prevent it from happening.

"Are we going to be back before dinner?" Jolt, the team's demolition specialist asked. Four men sat inside a civilian Audi Q7 Full-sized SUV. Each one of the men were dressed in civilian clothes, tweaked with armor plate carriers, rifles, pistols and holsters. Jolt always had his trusty HK416 fitted with a holosight, foregrip and laser. Where ever he went, the weapon was with him. Whatever he needed dead, the weapon would do his bidding.

"Might be just in time for apple pie," Recoil, the team's close quarter specialist replied with a small chuckle. Recoil was dressed in a long sleeved gray turtleneck and matching pants. He didn't like the feeling of the sun sizzling his skin. Recoil was holding his favorite Mark 48 Mod 1 machine gun, the offshoot of the M249 but with more firepower.

"The missus will probably bitch about how you guys are always being late anyway. Might as well enjoy the fun," Grass said, our team's newest recruit from the other teams. He was the only one in the entire SEAL Team Six that was single. He wore a QuickSliver T-shirt and cargo pants, carrying the capable UMP Sub Machine gun.

"Now, now Grass. Do not butt clench because the three of us are married and you're not," Guardian, Wolfkill's call sign, said with a laugh. He wore an olive drab tee with khaki combat trousers, next to him was his favorite and specially selected FN F2000 Tactical Rifle.

Grass grumbled in frustration as the three seniors laughed at him. Blocks ahead, the police had sectioned out two blocks from the bank as the robbers had opened fire on anyone trying to get into the bank. They had left several Italian SWAT members dead and threatened to execute the hostages they were holding inside. Delta Team had the pleasure of working with Black Team, SEAL Team Six's snipers. Four of them had set up around the bank and had maintained eyes on the men inside.

"Black One, Delta One," Guardian heard the radio crackle in the SUV.

"Delta One, Black One, send. Over," Guardian replied, slowing down the SUV as the four approached the police checkpoint.

"Eyes on ten tangos equipped with what looks like Russian spec AN-94s. Black Team counting twelve..." there was a short pause, "no eighteen hostages, break. Black Team will continue to report as situation develops."

"Roger that Black Team. Delta One out," Guardian replied halting the Audi at the checkpoint.

"Interrompere questo è un posto di blocco della polizia," one of four policeman said, walking up to the vehicle.

"Mi scusi," Guardian said and pulled out a small identification card.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Right this a way." The police quickly waved the four through realize they were the special forces being sent in. Guardian slowed the vehicle down to a crawl and expertly made his way towards the rear of the bank. So far, no one knew they were there and he had to move quickly to get inside before the robbers had known they had slipped their net.

"Delta One, Black, friendlies approaching the bank's rear," Guardian reported as he parked the vehicle at the bank's rear door.

"Black Three, eyes on you. No tangos in sight. Continuing overwatch," the SEAL sniper quickly replied.

"Alright, everyone out. Get your game face on," Guardian ordered, stepping out of the driver's seat.

"Jolt, take point and recon the door for a breach. Grass, Recoil, form a defensive perimeter and make sure no one stumbles onto us," Guardian said and pulled up a small balaclava from his shirt.

"Roger that Boss," Jolt replied and pulled out a small tube. Inside was a camera connected to Jolt's personal data pad. Jolt reached under the door, feeling the small space between the floor and the metal door. He slid the tube in and activated the sensor.

"Nothing. Only one long corridor," Jolt reported.

"General Russo, we are outside the bank and are prepared to breach. Are the NOCS in place?" Guardian spoke into the radio. General Russo was the commander of the Counter-Terrorist NOCS, special unit within the SWAT Team and he was overseeing the entire operation in coordination between the SEAL Teams and the Italian Police.

"Yes, they are in place. Do not worry Guardian. We will not interfere with your operation," General Russo replied. Guardian gave a satisfied nod to Jolt whom was working on the door breach. He pulled out what looked like greenish clay from his backpack. With careful and practiced hands, Jolt molded the clay on the door hinges then, he plugged two wires into the clay before giving Guardian a thumbs-up.

"Stack up," Guardian whispered. The four split up into pairs and pressed themselves against the walls on both sides of the doors. Guardian and Jolt were closest to the door with Recoil and Grass bringing their rear. The four tense their bodies.

"Breaching," Jolt reflexively said and squeezed the detonator. The green clay strip went off with a soft and gentle, pop. The metal door slammed into the granite floor as Guardian and Jolt rushed into the hallway. The men were pressed against the wall, moving to cover the hallway in an effective crossfire. On the end of their barrels were thin metal cylinders to suppress the noise and flash of their fire.

"Corridor clear," Guardian reported and continued pushing forward into the hallway.

"Delta, Black One, we have activity," the radio crackled as Guardian held up a fist to stop the team.

"Send it," Guardian replied. He stopped right before a metal door. Slowly, he circled the door and stopped at the other side to let Recoil get the biggest field of fire.

"One of the tangos look agitated and ordered his buddy somewhere. Tracking...tracking, yellow, yellow, red, no solution," Black reported. Guardian grabbed the doorknob and pushed the door inside.

Recoil rushed inside.

Guardian heard a female yelp as he entered the room next. Inside the room was a single female, she looked a bit older than her coworkers. Two of which were male and were pointing what looked like M9 Beretta pistols at Recoil. The four of them were at a short standoff. One of the two male workers noticed Grass taking aim at him from outside the room and tried to adjust his aim.

"Drop your weapons!" Guardian ordered. The two men hesitated. Guardian could see their uneasiness with three heavily armed men pointing high powered rifles at their foreheads.

"Are you American?" the female asked, pushing her two coworkers aside.

"Identify yourself," Guardian stated as he shifted his aim. Male or female, he wasn't going to let someone seduce their way out of this situation. Worse, with the explosive material in their possession.

"I am Gina Mancini, manager of this bank. These two are my bodyguards," she said with an arrogant and pompous accent. He hated the woman in control, more so if they were someone who thought everyone below her was nothing but a savage animal.

"Recoil, check the lady and the two grunts," Guardian ordered. Recoil nodded and walked over to manager while Guardian was busy contacting General Russo. The manager gave out an earful of insults as Recoil patted her down. Her bodyguards did nothing to intervene, they seemed to see it like some sort of payback.

"General," Guardian said simply.

"What is it Guardian?" he replied.

"We've got a Gina Mancini here claiming she's the manager of the bank," Guardian reported as Gina shrugged Recoil off after the short pat down.

"That is correct," General Russo said.

"I'm going to keep her here until your units clear the bank," Guardian said, it wasn't a suggestion, it was a statement.

"Will do Guardian."

"Secure the manager," Guardian ordered, "we're leaving her to NCOS."

"You can't leave me here!" she cried out desperately.

"Let's go," Guardian brushed off the comment.

"Who are you to tell me, Gina Mancini, that I'm going to sit here and wait with a bank full of robbers?!" the manager retorted. Panic and fear turned people into desperate animals, ready to do anything to get free. SEALs don't feel that. The reason is because they are what sends people into a spiral of fear and panic.

"I could fucking shoot you and leave you here to rot," Guardian growled in frustration, "I work for a unit so elite, you would be but a little shit stain in the world compared to what we do."

The bank manager was frozen. Maybe she wasn't used to scolding. What Guardian could see was that her coworkers were snickering behind her back. She probably did the exact same thing to them on a daily basis. He didn't regret anything. This was his job. He was a SEAL Team Six member. Guardian and Recoil walked over to the door, closing it shut.

"Good day," Guardian said before using his multi-tool to lock the room from the outside.

"Good riddance more like it," Grass scoffed.

"Black, Delta, alert," Guardian's radio squawked, "one times foot mobile headed your way."

"It's about to get really fucking loud," Guardian stated and pulled down his goggles, activating his weapon's laser. The four focused on one large metal door at the end of the hallway. This area seemed to be where the information technicians and technology staffed worked. It was the perfect area for computers. The area slightly sank underground and the air was cool.

"Cut the lights," Guardian ordered. Grass nodded and tapped at the PDA mounted under his left arm. The cool air felt crisp as Guardian took a deep breath.

"Thirty seconds," Grass whispered calmly, tapping away on his PDA. Nothing moved. The bank seemed fairly sophisticated, how did these guys manage to infiltrate, Guardian didn't know, his job was to eliminate them and make sure the explosive was safe.

"Five seconds," Grass said, waiting for his PDA to hack and assimilate into the bank's control system. Brushed aluminum walls and granite floors reflected the harsh tungsten light. Both were good at deflecting laser beams. He knew that his team was trained enough not to muddle their aim and shots.

"And..." Grass said, elongating, and, for dramatic effect, "lights out."

The hallway instantly became pitch black within the blink of an eye. Guardian reached above his eyes with trained accuracy for his monocular right eye night vision goggle. Mounted to his OpsCore helmet was the PVS/AN-14 goggle that was able to turn the darkest of nights into day. It's only disadvantage was that it couldn't see in complete black out environments. Guardian had a solution and came ready.

He squeezed a small pad in front of the foregrip to activate the infrared torch that bathed the entire corridor in a blinding, invisible greenish light. The metal doors slid open to reveal one individual. Dressed in a suit and grayish pants, he walked inside. His heels clicked against the floor in silence. Words escaped his mouth in a language which seemed like Pushtu. In his hands and close to his stomach was the AN-94 Russian Assault Rifle. His eyes were wide-open and clearly spooked.

"Hey buddy," Grass whispered, making the man jump.

In that instant, four bright green beams shot out from the darkness and dotted his chest. Guardian's rifle coughed thrice. The man's chest exploded into a mist of darkened black before crumpling into the ground, his rifle echoing with a clatter. Two shots in the chest and once in the head. The SEAL's famous double tap. Guardian and Recoil stood up from their position opposite of the pair's wall.

"Sad bastard," Jolt said, "didn't even stand a chance."

"The only rule in combat," Guardian chirped, "is to fight dirty to win."

Jolt's hand hovered over the dead robber's eyes and closed them for eternity. Cold, accurate, precise and above all lethal. These were the words that described SEAL Team Six.

But, this did not mean they weren't human.

The team of four continued moving. Through the door, the electricity resumed. Guardian looked back at the dead body. Blood pooled out from underneath the corpse, the shining granite smothered by red liquid. Like rivers, the stream of blood flowed freely. He moved on without regret and no emotion. Emotions affect judgment, muddled judgment leads to death and death was not what he wanted.

"Tango down," Guardian reported.

"Roger that Delta," the radio crackled in reply, "the men in the main lobby are getting restless. He's holding up one of the females in a choke hold. Pistol is pressed to her temple."

"We need to move faster," Guardian whispered underneath his breath.

They ascended a set of spiral stairs towards the main lobby. Guardian could hear the fearful pleads of the civilians and their tearful sobs. At this point, any soldier would have a reaction. Something like a tug at their hearts, making them want to save the poor souls faster. Guardian did not. He was involved in operations like these hundreds of times over. Nothing was new.

"Break, break, break," the radio crackled again, "we have five blacked out vans moving towards the lobbies. Multiple snipers have set up on adjacent rooftops. Is this the NCOS?"

"NCOS, what the fuck?" Grass muttered, the four of them reaching a wooden door.

"General Russo, what's happening?" Guardian asked.

No reply.

"General Russo. What. The. Fuck. Is. Happening?" Guardian asked with a frustrated tone in his voice.

"I'm sorry Guardian but the Italians will take it from here. We believe that you have done enough, stand down." General Russo replied with a confident tone, Guardian knew how this was going to down. More dead civilians.

"General, pull back now. If you don't, there will be a fucking blood bath!" General Russo had already decided to ignore Guardian.

"Fuck. We need to do this now," Guardian grunted and stacked up by the door.

"Four flashbangs, first volley on three, second volley on four," Guardian explained, seeing his teammates nod.

"Pull!" Guardian grunted. He pulled the pin on his cylindrical grenade and waited. He counted, one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three. Slamming the door open, he lobbed the grenade with all his might and saw the small greyish tube tumble towards the center of the room. He ducked behind the wall and covered his ears. He heard a fizzle, then a loud bang. His hears rang as the flashbangs detonated with the loudness of a jet engine close up and the flash of a thousand suns, enough to blind one person for a short amount of time.

"Help me!" One screamed rose above the chaos.  
Guardian and his team sprung into action, storming out the door with rifles aimed. Guardian started going through the steps in his mind. Five tangos, where did the other four go? He shrugged of the thought and concentrated on the ones in front of him. One was holding a teenage dressed in a casual tee and jeans, the pistol pressed to her head. He focused on the one closest towards him. The poor bastard was looking over the bank teller's counter, eyes shut to combat the bright light from the flashbang with his rifle pointed towards the ground. The rifle coughed. Two in the chest and one in the head. His head smacked against the granite top and tumbled into the ground.

"Tango down!" Guardian screamed and shifted.

The one next to the door was already in the process of falling towards the ground, his chest having three bullet holes and head disfigured by what he guessed was Recoil's powerful Mark 48 Mod 0 machine gun. He eyes moved to another trio standing watch over the hostages. They were recovering from the flashbang but no fast enough. Guardian aimed his little red dot on the man's chest and tapped the trigger twice. He saw the robber fall backwards like he was hit with a strong punch to the chest. With just enough time, he readjusted and fired a bullet straight into his head. The two beside the downed hostile was quickly taken out by Jolt and Grass.

"Stop or I shoot her!" a voice, Arabic accent heavily laced, yelled. Guardian froze and turned to see the one taking the teenager hostage had recovered with the girl fearfully holding onto the stranger's arm.

"Drop the weapon!" Grass yelled, taking point.

The tango made no move up tried to shield himself behind the defenseless female.

"Drop the fucking weapon!" Grass yelled again and took a step forward.

"Don't move any closer or I shoot!" the robber screamed.

"Black Team?" Guardian asked.

"Black, Delta, I have a solution. Yellow, try to move him a bit more to the right," his radio responded.

"Black Four, Delta, we have black vans stopping at the front of the bank." Guardian circled the man's right to force him to turn. That man did just as Guardian hoped he would, now Black One would take the shot and Guardian's team would continuing clearing the building but that wasn't the case.

"Green, I have the solution. Firing..." Black One didn't have time to finish his transmission.

One loud bang shattered glass in the entire room. Guardian's vision went white, his body told him to go rub his eyes to clear out the flash. His training told him to stand ground. And he did just that. The ringing in his ear blocked all noise. He stood still focused on what was in front of him. Slowly, the vision and hearing returned to him. It was a good thing he wasn't near the epicenter of the blast. But something else happened. One gunshot rang out among the confusion. The distinct sound of a pistol, one that he had hoped to never hear.

"You fucking bastards!" Guardian shrieked, seeing the teenager's body slumping into the ground.

Adrenaline poured into his body, making time slow to a standstill. The tango still too confused to understand what he did, not to mention blind and deaf. He wasn't angry at the tango, oh no, he was angry at the NCOS. The ones who triggered the hostile to pull the trigger from a twitchy nerve, the one who fucked up the operation and the one who single handedly want to glory hound. He aimed at the tango and poured his entire thirty round clip magazine into him, his rage falling out like a water as he let out a warcry so fearsome that even the lions would rather go back into the den than face him. His rifle clicked empty. Guardian was about to turn around to scream at the NCOS but something slugged his stomach.

Guardian was lifted free off the ground just as his left arm went numb. He felt his back smack against the ground, hard. He felt his ears ring, his eyes looking at the aluminum brushed ceiling with fluorescent lights. Guardian could have quit, stay lying down on the floor and looked at the pretty architecture. He was a SEAL and SEALs don't quit. He pushed himself off the ground and felt his left arm burn before sharp pain shot up his spine. Guardian looked at his shoulder to see blood pooling out from the wound, he didn't care. Block out the pain and push onwards.

"Contact front!" Jolt screamed, firing at the missing four tangos.

Guardian aimed and squeezed the trigger. The rifle recoiled against his good shoulder. Even with one arm down, he could still kill. They were trained for everything. The first of them went down, then the second, each one crumpled down like a domino. Each were killed without mercy. Guardian paused, he was panting. The energy required to fire off the rifle with one arm and the other injured took quite a toll on Guardian.

"Delta Three, we have a man down. Man down," Recoil reported.

Guardian turned around, dread creeping into him. There he was. Grass. He was on the shining black floor with blood pooling out from underneath him. Recoil was next to Grass, pulling the plate carrier off of his body. His t-shirt was soaked with blood but one spot was drenched with so much blood, it was black. The bullet had entered through his abdomen and exited his back. His mouth was beginning to foam with blood and his breathing was staggered between choking on the red liquid and air.

"Someone get me a fucking doctor!" Guardian's voice cracked, the fear of losing his man filled his mind. The NCOS just stood there looking at the four.

"Fucking medico, capire? Medico!" Guardian screamed, kneeling next to Grass.

"Look at me," Guardian ordered and smacked Grass on the cheek, "fucking look at me Grass!"

His eyes slowly focused on Guardian's face, a smile slowly forming from his blood slick lips. Grass laughed. Blood spittle erupted from his mouth, his body starting to racket from his cough. He could feel the blood blocking his airway. The red liquid pooling out by the number into his throat. Grass wheezed for air, his right hand caught onto Guardian's t-shirt sleeve.

"Don't..." he wheezed, "it's not...your-"

Grass coughed once more, his body shaking violently. He was going into shock.

"Fault..." Grass managed one last word.

Guardian felt the pressure on his good shoulder disappear, Grass's grip fading. Grass's chest rose, then stopped. His hand fell to the floor. It bounced once and never moved back up again. His fingers uncurled with no strength left. Brown irises dilated to stare into the void of the unknown. The blood in his mouth no longer bubbled or sputtered, it dripped down the corners of the young man's mouth and slid towards the ground. Grass was no longer living, he had passed on. Into what Guardian hopes were the embrace of the other fallen SEAL brothers.

"Fuck!" Guardian screamed and slammed his fist into the ground next to Grass's head.

"Wake up Grass," Guardian howled, waiting for the young warrior to snap his eyes open and take a breath of fresh air.

"Grass!" Guardian screamed in a pained voice.

A hand fell on his good shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Guardian looked up to see Recoil's reassuring emerald green eyes staring back at him. They conveyed words no other would notice. Only those who were on the same path as him would understand. The three knelt down in silence, tears falling out like an open tap and onto their brother's lifeless body.

One silent moment for the fallen.

Moments later, Guardian inhaled a deep breath. His eyes snapped open and devoid of tears, emotion and unwanted sadness. Guardian's gloved hand hovered over Grass's face, sliding down the warrior's eyes. His eyes were now closed forever in an eternal slumber. Jolt had brought over a stretcher in which the three moved Grass onto. The green fabric, now dripping with blood, was hoisted upwards by Grass's teammates.

Four others stood by the door. Dressed in the black clothing and each with an M40 Sniper Rifle, Black Team waited for their fallen comrade. Guardian walked up to them and saw the four briefly touching Grass's head, muttering words for their own.

"May the seas be calm and the wind still," one whispered and walked away.

"Be on an eternal patrol brother. We'll be right there with you soon after," Another said.

Guardian nodded with silent respect for their highly trained brothers and moved towards the Audi. Behind the bank, was General Russo. He stood with four other NCOS member equipped with MP5 sub machine guns. They looked like they were waiting for an explanation where one wasn't needed.

"What happened back there Guardian?" General Russo asked and stepped forward.

"Let me fucking tell you what happened," Guardian's rage had burst into the flames of a thousand suns.

"Your team went in there knowing that my snipers and our assaulters had it covered," Guardian pressed his bloodied left hand into the General, his pain being suppressed by his willpower.

"This is what happens when you glory hound General," Guardian stated and saw Grass's corpse being loaded into the back of the Audi Q7.

"The mistake of a few are being answered by many."

Grass, the dead teenager and the many that had died before the SEALs got to them. The General and his gloryhounding led to the death of many innocents. General Russo stood stoic, his mind at ease with the decision that he sent the NCOS in early. He would spin off the story to boost his popularity. The teenager that sacrificed her life to stop the bank robbers.

As for Grass, he would go unnamed, undecorated but, remembered by the few that he served with. For the mistakes of a few will be answered by many.


	2. Survivor's Guilt

Survivor's Guilt

Echoes of gunfire, screams and explosions rang in his head. Former Marine Sergeant David Clayton had thought his days in the battlefield were over. With a new job, new life, new objective, he thought he could leave it all behind.

But, what he wants, he knows won't come to him. For the actions of his men in Afghanistan had deeply effected him, like a scar worn on his body.

He lies awake in his middle class, two story house. In his bed, his wife lying next to him with an arm draped across his sweat slicked chest. Long healed cuts were chiseled like mementos. Tanned and rough skinned from long days in the sand. His days were spent with blood, sweat and tears.

Sweat dripped down his face, his eyes tightly shut. Eyeballs darted around behind aged eyelids. Clayton's right hand curled into a fist and grabbed the white fabric underneath all the while his wife grabbed on to his chest tightly with tears in her eyes.

His nightmares had persisted day after day ever since he left the service and this, was his third month.

The rough, crude sand blew at their faces. Marines of the 3rd Battalion 5th Marines were pressed behind their Humvees. Pinned by enemy fire, their squad leader was quickly running out of options.

"Dark Horse One-Three to Dark Horse One-One, we are pinned and combat ineffective!" Sergeant Clayton screamed, hunched over his backpack radio, "need reinforcements over!"

"Dark Horse One-One, unable to send back-up. We too are pinned down and unable to assist. Wait for air, over."

"Damn it!" Clayton yelled out in frustration and slammed the radiophone into the ground.

"Sergeant!" One of his men cried.

"What is it?" Clayton asked, grabbing his M16A4 rifle.

"They're pushing up closer towards us from our ten!" Private Grissom, one of the newer Marines out of boot camp, reported.

Sergeant Clayton slowly inched towards the back of his Humvee. He pressed himself to the metal skin, gathering courage to look out and into the wall of incoming fire. With a deep breath, he peeked out with his rifle aimed.

The highway was built on a raised slope, land next to it was flat and brown. Nothing out of the ordinary in the desert. Few mud buildings dotted the landscape along with the wide fields of opium poppies. Within the field of brown stalks, black turbans bobbed up and down, running towards the slope. Clayton pulled the trigger and placed a burst into the bobbing bundle of fabric.

The black turban disappeared, just to be replaced by bullets bouncing off the Humvee's trunk.

Clayton snapped behind the Humvee's safe, thick armor plating.

He looked to his left and saw his team of three. Private Grissom, clung to his rifle like a lifeline. His first tour and he was facing death straight in the face.

The rifleman, Private First Class Ryan was on his back. Not because he was tired or feeling overwhelmed but bleeding. His body armor and gear were littered next to him. Skin pale and clammy, his breathing was staggered between breaths of air and globs of blood. Red liquid pooled out from his chest, bubbling as it dripped down his ribs.

Their machine gunner and second most senior squad member, Corporal Keller, hovered over Ryan like a hawk. Keller's hands were pressing on Ryan's chest, under it were gauze pads. The cloth soaked up blood like a sponge. Keller had already stuffed Ryan with the gauze to stop the bleeding, but still, the blood leaked out like a cracked pipe.

"He's not looking too good Sergeant. Ryan needs medical attention," Keller said, "and fast."

"I know, I know!" Clayton replied, biting the bottom of his lip in shear frustration.

He could taste warm, metallic liquid.

"Grissom!" Clayton barked.

"Y-yes Sarge!" the young Marine replied.

"Try to get down the damned trench and circle the enemy, give us some covering fire!" Clayton ordered, seeing Grissom nodded.

"You got i-it Sarge!" he tried to answer back confidently, his voice clearly shaking.

"Get some Private!" Keller yelled, trying to motivate the scared Marine.

Clayton turned around and pulled out a fragmentation grade from his vest. He pulled the pin, counting.

One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand.

He lobbed the grenade high in the air and pressed himself against the Humvee. A loud bang silenced the entire highway.

His helmet smacked against the Humvee.

Ears ringing, his vision blurred and darkened. Clayton was unable to move. Time seemed to move inconsistently, the flow disrupted by blackouts. The only thing he could count were the heartbeats thumping against his chest and the breaths that seemed to fill his ears.

"Sergeant!" A voice screamed, snapping Clayton out of his coma.

His blue eyes snapped open.

"What happened?" he gasped.

"Grissom..." Keller opened his mouth but quickly let the sentence fade into oblivion.

Clayton looked back to see a massive crater a couple meters away from his Humvee. Rising dirt and smoke still obscured the slope but he could make out what laid next to it. Darkened blood seeped into the ground, the blood of crimson spreading out around the vague shape. The shape was eerily familiar but was missing a few things. Limbs? Smoke cleared to reveal the desert digital camouflage. Only a single arm and a head was still attached to the corpse.

Then it hit Clayton.

Grissom was dead.

He felt a pang in his stomach. Something burned inside his throat. The sight made him sick. Two tours of duty but this had to the most raw and visceral thing he had experienced. Bullets pinging against the Humvee brought him back to the battle.

"Keller," Clayton gulped, "how's Ryan?"

Keller simply shook his head.

Clayton looked over his shoulder to see the still body of his Rifleman. No sound escaped his mouth, no movement from his chest, no signs of life except for the blood seeping from his wound.

"If I'm going to die," Keller said ominously, "I'm going to go down fighting."

Clayton nodded in agreement. He racked the bolt on his rifle and slapped in a new magazine as Keller clambered onto the roof of the Humvee. Keller slid into the M2 Browning machine gun turret easily. With a single pull, the jammed bullet that previously left he fireteam vulnerable, was ejected free of the machine gun.

Keller thumbed the machine gun.

Clayton popped out from behind the Humvee, the steady thrumming of the machine gun beside him. He fired back at the enemy. Red tracers zipped past him. Adrenaline coursed through his body. The hairs on his back stood as he could feel the heat of the bullets searing the skin on his face.

Time seemed to slip his grasp as he loaded in his third or so magazine. All he knew was that he was exhausted from keeping the enemy off him and Keller. Without notice, the opium fields exploded into a storm of dust and dirt. He left to see a Humvee convoy speeding towards him, their Mark 48 Grenade Launchers and M2 Browning Machine Guns blazing.

With a sigh, Clayton collapsed into the Humvee.

He noticed that the M2 was silent.

"We made it Keller," Clayton whispered, tired.

The Humvee came to a skidding stop, it's brakes squealing under the weight. One single squad, twelve soldiers, dismounted the vehicle. The squad leader, Staff Sergeant Kilroy, Dark Horse Two-One walked towards Clayton. He was the leader of Clayton's sister squad.

The man looked down at Clayton.

"Shit Sergeant," he said, "you must have been very fucking lucky to have survived."

"Yeah," Clayton wheezed, "fucking lucky."

Staff Sergeant Kilroy extended a hand to Clayton whom grasped on to gratefully. He was pulled up, Kilroy slinging Clayton's arm around his neck.

Clayton chuckled, then laughed.

The insanity of the situation could not be comprehended. It was his nerves talking. He just took fire, survived to tell the tale and had numerous amounts of adrenaline pumped through his body. He was now coming off the high he just received.

Clayton turned around to speak to Keller on the machine gun.

"We made -" Clayton started, his sentence abruptly stopped.

The barrel of the M2 pointed towards the heavens. Keller was slumped against the machine gun, a giant hole drilled into his helmet. Bits of blood and gray brain fluid sprayed around the turret. The roof of the Humvee was decorated by the pink of his brain. Bullet holes riddled the entire vehicle, the armor plate could only do so much.

Clayton's heart sank. The burning in his throat returned. This time, he didn't even bother to stop it. He fell to his knees, rifle clattering against the asphalt of the road. His lunch splattered onto the black tarmac in a disarray of white, yellow and brown.

Kilroy crouched next to him and gave him a pat on the back.

"Congratulations Clayton," he said, "you're a lone survivor."

Clayton's eyes shot open.

He sat up, breathing heavily. His lungs were burning like he held his breath underwater for too long. Glittering in the moonlight, cascading from the windows of his house, were four dogtags hanging off his neck on a ball chain. One for each soldier, including himself.

Sweat drenched his body as he buried his face in his hands.

Long, slender arms snaked around his torso. His wife pulled his body close to hers and rested her head on his shoulder blades, kissing them. She tried to reassure him.

Former Marine Sergeant David Clayton was awarded with a Bronze Star for his bravery in combat, a purple heart and a single legion of merit for his outstanding actions against the enemy when his squad was pinned down by the enemy.

He felt didn't deserve any of it.

Corporal Keller was awarded with a Medal of Honor for trying to save Private Ryan's life. Ryan and Grissom weren't awarded with anything.

"Come back to bed sweetie," his wife purred.

"Yeah," Clayton whispered, lying back down on the soft mattress.

"The nightmares will go away soon," she murmured.

"Three months Claire, three months..." he said.

"Don't worry," she yawned, "it's a matter of time."

"It's not the time that worries me," Clayton said, rubbing his eyes.

"It's the Survivor's Guilt."


	3. Don't Die On Me

Don't Die On Me

* * *

_"__Don't you die on me."_

Those were the words that haunted the Green Beret Master Sergeant as he looked out the window of his hotel room. In his hand was a disposable cellphone, untraceable and undetectable when operating in another country. His wiped a hand over his face to wipe away sweat from his face as he tapped in the numbers into the old Nokia. The dial tone beeped in his ear. It felt like an eternity before someone answered.

"Hello?" the female voice came through.

"Claire?" he said. His tone of voice relieved, "I need to talk to you."

"We've already had our talks," she replied in a sharp, aggressive manner.

"It's different this time. Things have changed," he replied.

"That's what you always say," she said, he could see her eyes rolling in defiance.

"I promise. Just meet me at the mall near Rammstien Airbase," he explained and heard the sound of wind flowing past the aerodynamic body of a car.

"Are you driving?" he asked again as the line went dead, "Claire?"

Master Sergeant Elliot Holland was not a social man, he never got along with people outside the military. The only reason he met his wife was her finding interest in him and not the other way around. He was at that age, glad to have someone to talk to and spend time with. One thing led to another and they ended up having a baby girl.

That was before he decided to join the military.

His finger hovered over the keypad. Thoughts froze and his eyes seemed to glaze over. It was like he was being transported somewhere without him knowing. Before he knew it, he felt the stinging of fine sand blasting at his face. Heat steamed his body to the point where he felt like he was being cooked in a very hot oven. Bright light from the sun hovering high in the noon sky forced him to squint as his fireteam waited for orders to assault a known insurgent compound in Afghanistan. Even taking a knee under a tree with green leaves, it was still painfully hot.

"Echo One-Two, Echo One, report status. Over," his headset crackled.

"Echo One, this is Echo One-Two, in position and awaiting orders to execute. Over," Master Sergeant Holland replied.

"We moving out soon Top?" Jones, one of his more experienced soldiers on the ground asked. He took up position next to the tree. The M110 Sniper Rifle System cradled precariously over his knee, keeping a close eye on the compound ahead.

"Unknown at this time. Just keep waiting," Master Sergeant Holland stated and took a sip from his hydration bladder.

"Respectfully Sergeant," another voice said, "we've been camped out under this fucking tree for the last six hours with no movement. I would like to know why."

"Keep your smart mouth under control Luke. Hot temper's going to get us all killed if you don't," Jones growled. Luke McGuire was one of the newer Green Beret recruits to make it through the selection. Short tempered, eager and ambitious, he was of the few that Holland would think that could take out the squad from his reckless actions.

"Got movement Sergeant," a deep baritone warned from above Holland's crouched position.

"Yeah?" Holland replied and lifted his AUG-A3 CQC assault rifle.

"Sight right of the compound's western wall. Should be a guy poking his head out to look for us," Holland's machine gunner and recon man, Jack Kruger reported. Jack was a big man with a big gun. His M249 was heavy enough for a normal soldier but he would wield it like a toy. Being trained in the art of reconnaissance, Jack was the Green Beret's 18F or Intelligence Sergeant. This didn't stop him from deploying to the frontlines.

Holland looked through the small combat optic set behind his holographic sight, magnifying the image. He saw a tall mud wall built on a raised surface which looked just like compacted dirt. The scoped swayed slightly as Holland tightened his grip on the weapon's foregrip to stabilize the reticule. Brownish particles of dirt puffed up from the ground behind the wall, then a small head poking out for a few seconds before popping back behind cover.

"See that?" Kruger asked as Holland nodded.

"Yeah," Holland replied and squeezed the radio transmit button clipped to his vest, "I'll call it in."

"Echo Two-One, Echo Two," Holland said briefly waiting for a response.

"This is Echo Two. Go for message over," the reply came.

"I've got a possible dicker behind the western wall of the compound. Please advise on further course of action. Over," Holland said and lifted his weapon. There he was again look out from behind the compound, right over to where the four crouched under the shade not even fifty meters away.

"Just tag him and get it over with," McGuire scoffed.

"For now just wait for my signal. How copy?" the radio asked as Holland nodded.

"Roger that, Echo Two. Echo Two-One waiting out," Holland replied.

"Remind me what we're waiting for again?" McGuire said sarcastically.

"Air support smart mouth. Now shut that trap before I make a breach and clear of it," Jones warned, making the younger man silent.

"There he goes again," Kruger breathed, his left eye glued to his machine gun's scope.

Holland looked through his magnified holosight again. True to his words, the shape popped up from behind cover again and this time, stayed a few seconds longer. Holland had suspicions on the shape being a hostile. The silhouette was hidden behind the shadow of the Eastern wall. Sunlight from the sun slowly disappearing as a cloud moved in. And with that, the roaring of jet engines exciting the air around them. The situation started to become, as they would say, kinetic.

"Bird's here. Playtime forty five mikes, we'll be done in five." Holland laughed quietly at his commander's transmission.

"Echo Two-One, PID and take the shot."

"You heard the man Jones," Holland patted his back, "identify and bag'em."

"You got it," Jones breathed as he flicked the safety of his rifle off.

Holland took the precaution of bringing out his binoculars to help Jones identify and kill the peeping tom. He brought the heavy glass up to eyes, the image now being clearly magnifying. Holland could see the shape's black hood. Wait, black hood, female covering. That was no outlook, it was possibly a girl trying make contact.

"Is that who I think it is?" Jones asked.

"Yeah," Holland stated and squeezed his radio transmit, "Echo Two-One, Echo Two."

"This is Echo Two, go for message."

"We have positive ID on dicker. It is a young female, thinking she wants contact. Please, advise on further course of action."

"Hold tight until we start the op. Just watch her for now," Holland's commander replied.

"Fucking hell. I almost shot her," Jones breathed.

"Just hold tight."

Holland pulled up his black balaclava from his vest to cover his lower face. The suffocating fabric restricting his breathing but also kept dust and debris out. It was a must in close quarters combat when you bust through a door just to find a cloud of dust waiting for you on the other side. Anticipating combat, he also pulled down his ballistic goggles and pulled back the charging handle on his rifle just slightly back. The glint of brass reassured him that he had a round chambered.

"All callsigns final check," his radio squawked.

"Echo Two-One, ready."

"Delta Five and Delta Six ready."

"Echo Two-Two, ready."

"All callsigns ready, prepare for combat."

That was the signal for the screeching jets to dart right over to compound. Two F-15Es flew over the battlefield, so low that their dark metal frames threatened to slam into the compound itself at over three hundred miles an hour. At the last second, they pulled up and towards the blue, clear sky above. Their twin jet engines spitting out streams of bright purple heat, distorting the area around them.

"All callsigns execute, execute," Holland stood up and tapped Jones's shoulder, "execute."

"Covering!" Jones exclaimed as Kruger jumped from the tree, landing onto the ground with a solid thud.

"Echo Two-One. Moving into position," Holland reported to his commander.

The three charged towards the compound wall. It was a two hundred meter sprint to the death. With over 140 pounds of gear wrapped around his body, Holland was trying to keep his legs going forward. They sagged somewhat but, the occasionally mental kick would sort them out. They weren't green berets for nothing. He would feel the crunching of dirt and dust underneath his boots. The air felt heated, hard to breathe as sweat dripped even faster on his body. Nothing, he heard nothing apart of the frequent chatter of his radio. Slamming into the wall with his side, he took point.

He held up his fist before waving the team forward. Holding his rifle with a left hand grip, he quickly and cautiously swung the rifle around the corner. His eyes stopped not to look at the girl in black garb but what she had around her. Around her waist was a greenish vest with wires running across rectangular charges. His mind clicked instantly as dread ran down his body. The little girl started walking towards him.

"Bomb!" he screamed, lifting his rifle. Holland felt guilty at first, but that disappeared when his and his squadmates' lives were at risk. With a quick two round shot to the chest just above the vest, he put the girl down and ducked behind the stone wall. His ears popped and ringing took the place of sound. Darkness consumed his vision as his body went numb. All he could hear was breathing and the strong thumping of his heart against his chest.

A few moments later, he opened his eyes to the sight of brown. Holland realized he was on the ground. He pushed himself off the ground and looked for his two squadmates. Kruger and McGuire was getting to their feet not far from him. He didn't have time to feel sorry for the girl. Whether she was forced to do this or volunteered, he didn't care right now. All he knew was that, he was still standing and walking while she was a splatter of blood on the ground. Holland forced himself to keep moving.

"Holland," Jones's voice came through on the radio, "that blast took out a good piece of the wall. You okay?"

"Yeah," he grunted, "a bit sore but in one shape."

"I sure am fucking not," McGuire cheekily replied. Holland disregarded the comment. The trio came upon a small door at the back of the compound. This was were most soldiers would be injured in battle, breaching with two forces on each side of the building. Holland turned on the flashlight attached to his rifle's right forward rail and waved Kruger to set the charge. The machine gunner took up position opposite of him and pulled out a flat, rectangular piece of metal the size of an A3 paper. 'Surprise' with two Xs on the frowning face was spray painted on the charge.

"Echo Two-One in position," Holland reported.

"You alright Two-One? That blast seemed like it knocked some sense into you," the radio squawked a reply.

"All here Echo Two," Holland answered and took a glance at McGuire, "McGuire, take up overwatch at the door for anyone coming to interrupt our work."

"You sure you don't need me in there with an extra M4 boss?" he asked.

"No," Holland replied gruffly.

"Okay then," McGuire shrugged and turned around to scan the area behind the compound. Holland waited a few minutes for a signal. A minute passed by, then two. One short beep screamed in his headset. His eyes looked up to Kruger who's fingers right finger flashed, in his left hand was a small detonator. One, two, three. Holland's head turned towards the rough and jagged wall. A blast buffeted his body with a light tap as his rifle came up. His eyes trained at the darkness behind the wooden door.

Holland stepped into the darkness of the room and swept his rifle left and right, actively looking for a target. The beam of light went only so far as the dust clouded most of his vision. His ears picked up the cracks of rifle fire reverberating through the house as Kruger and him cleared the first room.

"Clear!" Holland screamed.

"Room clear!" Kruger replied. Holland turned left and walked through a large opening to find what looked like a fairly big living room adorned with fancy rugs and sitting mats. One single light bulb dimly lit the room, it illuminated just a small spot below. His eyes picked up two shadows darting from one end of the room to another. Holland aimed the rifle in front of the shape. The flashlight revealing the shadow to be a young and fit fighter. The man's AK-47 rose as Holland squeezed his trigger, pumping two bullets into the body. His body slumped forward, slamming into the table in front of the sitting mat before rolling off onto the reddish rug.

"Tango down!" Holland shouted. He heard Kruger's light machine gun spit out a single quick burst. The man's friend slammed into the wall behind him as the light machine gun's heavy rounds impacted his body with the force of an elephant. Holland scanned the room one final time before moving forward.

"Room's clear," he heard a voice faintly report.

"Uh Sergeant," McGuire's voice came though on the comms, "I don't like what I'm seeing."

"What do you see?" Holland asked clearing the next room, which looked like a kitchen and didn't contain anything of interest.

"A couple motorbikes on the road crossing from left to right. Some stopped, they seemed to be watching or waiting."

The concern spilled a small dose of fear into his twisting stomach. But all thoughts disappeared when he faced a blinding flashlight. He kept his rifle raised for a second longer before both of the sources lowered them at the same time. Holland looked at an African-American soldier, the one that was their 18E or Communication's Sergeant and he towered above Holland at six feet ten inches.

"Reynolds," Holland chuckled, "how the fuck did you get here so fast? You Usain Bolt?"

"I'm faster than that chump any day," he responded with a laugh.

"All callsigns, all callsigns, withdraw out of the area now. I have reinforcements pouring in from the South, West and North. We need to egress to the East. We all have what we came for, let's move gentlemen." Holland heard the ping off enemy rounds impacting the walls of the house. It sounded bad as the team went back to the way they came in.

"McGuire," Holland yelled into the radio, "give us some covering fire as we exfil!"

There was no answer.

"McGuire!" Holland screamed again, "Jones can you get me eyes on McGuire?"

There was a short pause before Jones answered.

"Negative, he's just behind the wall outside and my cone of vision."

"Shit," Holland grunted with worry, "McGuire!" He screamed, running out the door to see the rookie slumped against the wall with blood pooling form his stomach. McGuire was in a bad way. Holland would see his face contorted in pain as his right hand pressed against the wound like he was taught in training. Holland quickly knelt next to his subordinate and pulled the man against the wall.

"Where you hit?" Holland asked in broken English as he ripped open the body armor.

"Fucking intestines," McGuire breathed, "fucking sniper bullet got me."

"He still here?" Holland asked again, his right hand pulling out a quick seal bandage to hamper the bleeding until he could a medic to look at him.

"Yeah. He's probably sighting you right now," McGuire grunted as the cool pad was slapped onto his gaping wound. Just as Holland ducked down to sling McGuire's arm over his neck. The wall behind him exploded into a puff of smoke. He looked up to see the glint of a scope in the darkness of a tree's shade. With haste, he pushed himself and McGuire off of the ground. The trio hobbling back two hundred meters towards their comrade's watchful eye.

"Jones!" Holland screamed.

"Yeah Sarge?" Jones screamed back.

"Can you get a fucking dope on that sniper?" Holland asked, "He's hidden under a tree somewhere behind us, more shots are bound to be coming towards us so find that muzzle flare!"

"Roger that Sarge!" Jones answered. Holland climbed up a short irrigation ditch dug to supply water to the opium plantation. His right foot met dry ground, although crumbling, it was stable. McGuire on the other hand was not so steady in his condition and stumbled over the small ditch. His torso landed straight onto the dirt, his mouth emitting a pained scream.

"Fuck!" the hurt, but, still very alive Special Forces operator screamed.

"You alright?" Holland grunting and grabbed the soldier's arm.

"Yeah but I think I messed up my side pretty badly," McGuire grunted with exhausted spite. Holland and McGuire kept going, the pair getting usual cover fire from the lagging Kruger. The giant soldier carried McGuire's body armor and pack, realizing it was too dangerous to leave equipment behind. The trio booked it with mixed results from stumbling, slowed walking and falling into the dirt while Jones did his best to cover the three. Eventually, Holland reached Jones' position.

"Took your damn time," Jones grunted firing off another shot.

"We didn't have the luxury of speed," Holland replied as Kruger crouched beside Jones, the man giving extra covering fire while Holland did preliminary first-aid.

"Stay with me," Holland breathed and lifted up the young man's olive drab tee.

"Oh cut the bullshit Sarge," McGuire groaned, "just stick a needle in me and fucking get me into the helicopter."

"Still sassy when you're downed eh McGuire?" Kruger said, trying to keep the mood light. What Holland found was unexpected. From the falls, blood had soaked the gauze pad used to keep the wound compressed. Holland pulled the bandage off just to find the dressing he had stuffed inside the wound was dripping in blood. He had to change it and fast.

"Echo Two-One, where the hell are you? All forces have withdrawn to extraction coordinates and we cannot send out a chopper until all units are accounted for," the radio squawked in his ear. Holland opened his mouth to talk but was cut off by his second in command.

"With all due respect Two-One. We have a downed man that Holland is trying to fix up with spit and chewing gum here. Wait out," Kruger growled.

"That is unacceptable. We need-" the transmission was cut off mid-sentence. Kruger exchanged a short glance with Holland before looking to Jones. None of them had cut transmission with their commander. Something was going horrible wrong. Holland could feel it in his stomach as he pulled rolls of bandages and two pads of gauze.

He heard McGuire chuckle.

"What?" he asked, "Did the Cap snap his radio antenna or something?"

"I don't know. But," Holland said, pushing his combat knife's hilt into the soldier's mouth, "I'm going to patch you the fuck up."

Holland pushed the ball of rolled up bandages into McGuire's wound, trying to close the space and stop the bleeding. The soldier in turn bit hard into the hilt and let out a muffled scream of pain and agony. It was short and explosively painful. Gunfire started to crackle closer towards them as Holland slapped the bandage onto both sides of McGuire. The bullet having gone straight through.

"Let's get moving," Holland grunted and slung the man's arm over his shoulder.

The four moved as one, Kruger and Jones swapping constantly every fifty or so meters to cover for Master Sergeant Holland and McGuire. It was five hundred meters in a ditch surrounding a wide open poppy field that was called their extraction zone. Five hundred grueling meters of hobbling, dragging and limping. With every meter, McGuire was beginning to tire. His wound was taking a toll on him. Not to mention the painful procedure to replace the wound's bandage.

"They're getting awfully daring Sergeant!" Jones screamed from behind him in the middle of an open field run to the death.

"How daring?!" Holland half grunted, half yelled.

"A dozen of them," Jones breathed running after the two as Kruger crouched to take up firing positions, "half runnin', half gunnin'."

The ditches were in sight but felt miles away, sound seemed to drown out from his head. Holland stumbled head over heels and landed with a face full of dirt. His breathing was ragged and shallow. He was trying to keep conscious while dragging a downed soldier back. He looked back, seeing the wounded soldier crawling towards the ditch. Even if they were mere, tired centimeters, he kept crawling. Holland's right hand reached for his AUG A3 and forced himself off the ground. Sound seemed to resume, as if it faded from being paused.

"Get up Sergeant!" he heard someone scream as he blinked, "Get! Up!" Holland grabbed McGuire by the collar of his tee. His hands tried to lift the lifeless body up, the fabric ripping in half underneath his grip.

"Fuck," Holland muttered. His gloved hand wrapped around the man's limp forearm and slung it once again around his neck. McGuire was at this point, close to being unconscious. He did what he could to stay awake, helping Holland walk towards the ditch included. Within one hundred meters or so of the ditch, he could see two men rushing out towards them. Their camouflage told Holland they were the regular Army sent to help out the Green Berets.

"I'll take him Sarge," one of them said as he nodded.

"Kruger, Jones," the Sergeant called, "book it!"

Holland turned around to place down covering fire, his finger working the trigger as fast as the gun would fire. The enemy dropped like flies, one each being taken out by a single bullet. He could see the two soldiers sprinting back towards him. As soon as the pair passed him, Holland turned round and gunned it himself. His legs carried him far and fast. The only thing slowing him down was his armor and gear. Even Kruger, who had McGuire's equipment and gear around his back and neck, was faster.

Holland was just a few steps away from reaching the ditch. Just then, he felt something hammer his back. It sent him clear off the ground and straight into the hard dirt of the ditch's side. His vision went black, darkness muddled with his mind with a certain slowness he couldn't describe. It was as if he was completely drunk and tried to walk straight. His eyes fluttered open to the stinging of murky water. His face was half submerged in the dirty irrigation liquid. He got up to see the Captain screaming at an Army radio operator.

"Sir," Holland groggily spoke, "what's happening?"

"What's happening?" he screamed, "both our main and back-up radios are fucked that's what."

"How did that happen?" Holland asked as dull, throbbing pain pulse at his back.

"Main got sliced by shrapnel and the Corporal over here accidentally snapped the back-up radio's antenna," the Captain sighed, "only way now is to hail the strike fighters. We don't know where they are and I've got Reynolds trying to hail them on comms ever since we exfil'ed."

"Then we keep fighting," Holland stated and pulled back the charging of the rifle, "until help gets here."

"That's exactly what I thought," the Captain nodded. Holland walked down the ditch trying to find McGuire. He would soon see his man on a stretcher held a float by two concrete blocks along with four other wounded. One single female medic was tending to him and he observed that her hands were shaking horribly. Holland crouched next to her to check on McGuire.

"Did you give him morphine yet?" Holland asked.

"Not yet Sargent," she stuttered and pulled out a small syringe, her shaking hands hovering over McGuire's elbow. She hesitated, trying to still her hands so she could slide the needle into his veins. Holland could see that even the tried and wounded McGuire was getting impatient.

"Of for fuck's sake, come on woman," McGuire groaned with tiredness and grabbed her hand with his own, "just stick the fucking needle into me. I've been waiting for this shit."

McGuire's hand pushed down into his elbow while the medic's thumb injected the drug. The soldier gave out a long sigh of relief as the drug filled his system, calming him down and blocking out the pain. Holland's eyes looked down towards McGuire's wound. The bandages were once again, filled with fresh, red blood. His bleeding hasn't stopped.

"First time on the battlefield?" Holland asked the medic.

"Yes Sergeant," she whispered, seeing the bandage.

"You're doing well," he assured standing up as she pulled away the dressing, "keep my man alive for me."

Holland went back to the fight and consciously counted his ammunition as he fired his rifle. Six magazines of 5.56, three magazines of 9 mil and two frags. Not so much of an extended load but it will have to do. The Green Berets might not have brought a whole lot of firepower but the Army had brought in two full squads of soldiers equipped with M249 squad automatic rifles. Two machine guns however, were not going to keep the enemy pinned before they were smart enough to surround the small group.

The firefight started to drag on. Thirty minutes passed, then an hour, then two. Holland didn't believe that they could survive for much longer. Gunfire slowed to a lull as the third hour had passed and he was down to two, maybe three magazines left on his assault rifle. Holland was exhausted after a couple hours of fighting. It wasn't his mind, but rather the flesh encasing it. Legs were sore, arms were hurting and his body just caked in dry irrigation slush. His cheek was raw and red from the skin being constantly on the rifle's cheek rest.

Everyone was tired.

The sun hung low over the horizon as day was starting to turn into dusk. Shadows were long across the ground and the enemy had kept the on their toes with sporadic gunfire. The medic had reported to Holland that if a helicopter didn't pick up McGuire soon, he would die from loss of blood. For whatever reason, the blood in McGuire's body was just not clotting.

"Ammo check," Holland said as his voice was filled with exhaustion.

"Two magazines of 7.62 for the M110 and three nine mil mags," Jones reported while his rifle was half buried in the dirt, just the scope was jutting out of the ground.

"Last box of 5.56, I still got two mags for the M9. It won't last long though," Kruger replied.

"Fuck," Holland muttered, "where the hell is that MEDEVAC bird?"

Holland pulled his rifle out from the ditch's small dirt mound and walked down the small stream of water. Cool, freezing water sloshed around his boots. It was uncomfortable, it was cold and his feet were being rubbed raw. He saw McGuire with two other casualties. McGuire was by far, Holland thought, was the most seriously injured and the medic seemed to be thinking the same thing. She was holding onto his right hand with strands of brunette hair haphazardly sticking out of her helmet. McGuire's dull green orbs catching sight of the Master Sergeant.

"Hey Top," McGuire groaned weakly.

"How you doing McGuire?" Holland said with a reassuring smile.

"What the fuck do you think?" McGuire wheezed, "Like shit."

"Still got some fight in you I see," Holland chuckled.

"Course Top. Green Berets don't go down without a fight," McGuire paused to take a deep breath, "like I told Kara here."

"Keeping my man awake Kara?" Holland asked as she nodded.

"Yes Sarge, he's a tough nut. I'll give him that," Kara whispered.

"You know," McGuire grunted and took another deep breath, "if I met her somewhere else except for this hellhole. I might have taken her out a date."

"Shhh," Kara said after a small laugh, "I will if you make it through this."

"Holland," Holland heard someone call him, "I've got air on the line. They said a couple of exfil bird's on their way, ETA fifteen mikes from Bastion. McGuire's going to be in British surgeon hands in thirty."

"That's good news boss," Holland replied and stood up, his muscles groaning in protest.

"We're gearing up to get the fuck out of here in ten. Get back to the field behind us and fight until the birds land."

"Roger that," Holland said with a sharp nod. He walked back towards Jones and Kruger. The pair firing a burst every couple of minutes or so to keep the enemy at bay. Holland surveyed himself. He was on one of two magazines he had left for his assault rifle, clips for his sidearm and one last piece of equipment called the PDM 88. The pursuit deterrent mine was exactly what the name implied, to keep the enemy from chasing them.

Within a couple minutes of good news, everyone was informed of the extraction. Twenty four soldiers doing a tactical retreat to the LZ with ten minutes to spare until the evacuation bird came. That sounded like a plan to Holland. He switched out the partially empty magazine for the topped off clip, he knew he would need the partially empty one for the last few minutes of the withdrawal.

"Everyone ready?" came the Captain's voice.

No one said a word, but nodding in response.

"Good," he breathed, "let's do this."

"Smoke!"

Holland grabbed the cylindrical grenade from a regular standing next to him and pulled the pin. _One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand_. He lobbed the grenade into the field in front before the smoke grenade burned up hot enough to burn his fingers. Opaque fogs of white hissed out of the canister and filled the air like a wall of white. Gun fire erupted from beside him as Kruger and the Army machine gunner opened fire into the unknown behind the mist.

"First group move!" the Captain screamed.

"See you on the other side," Holland said to Kruger as he and Jones withdrew.

"Likewise," the bearlike man replied through gritting teeth.

Holland climbed up the back of the ditch, turning around and firing two quick rounds into the wall of white. Jones did the same as the pair sprinted a dozen or so feet back into the fields before taking a knee at their designated pick-up zone. Holland saw the female medic and three others carrying McGuire on a stretcher back towards him. With a mix of Green Berets and Army soldiers, the moving convoy of stretchers moved fast to save the injured.

"Second group move!" the Captain screamed and pulled out another smoke canister, just to throw it behind him.

Holland shouldered his rifle and pulled it in close to his body. At first, nothing moved except for the dying fumes of the smoke grenades they threw. Then, shapes darted out from the trees. He noticed the tired Kruger bumrushing it towards them as he threw something back into the ditch. Kruger was tired, just like Holland was, but neither of them dared to quit, as quitting would mean the end of their own lives and their comrades.

"Jets coming in!" the Captain reported almost on cue as two black shapes darted from behind them and into the treeline.

The pressure wave of the speed from the fighter jets made Holland wince from pain. His ears hurt, even with sound filtering headsets covering his ears with layers of protection. The pair of rose into the sky and disappeared out of sight just as fast as they came. Kruger slid into a crouch next to Holland, his massive arms bringing the heavy machine gun to bear.

"What did you throw?" Holland asked.

"A small present," Kruger breathed, "in form of a PDM 88."

"Good man," Holland laughed just to hear the explosion shatter the short lived silence.

"Contact!"

Holland saw two bodies being flung out from the ditch followed by the bright yellow and orange of muzzle flash. He fired another two rounds burst into the general direction. Soon, the entire column started to return fire. Even with limited ammunition, they were going on their last stand. It was fight or die. Minutes droned by as the volume of lead increased. Those who had expended their primary weapon's ammunition had switched to their sidearm.

"Where the fuck is that evac?" one screamed.

Holland was wondering that himself.

"Shit," he heard a female cuss, "he's slipping!"

Holland's mind flashed to McGuire. The situation started to deteriorate rapidly from that point. Grenades started to explode nearby the treeline. At first, he thought it was their own grenades. But as the firefight wore on, the explodes started to happen closer towards the friendly forces. Rockets sailed into the air, corkscrewing dangerously above their heads. Everything was just going to shit.

"How is he?" Holland yelled as he was crouched by the medic, her hands were over his ribcage.

"He's slipping away," she grunted.

Fear crept into Holland's mind as he fired off his last few bullets into the general direction of the enemy, his bullets grazing over some of his own soldier's helmets. McGuire was dead pale. It looked like he was already in a morgue. He looked like he had just died peacefully with a look on his face that Holland didn't want to see. Holland grabbed his left hand and pressed his helmet onto McGuire's forehead. He just his eyes tight as his mouth muttered words.

"Don't die on me McGuire," he whispered, "don't die on me."

Just then, the sounds of rotorblades chopping through the air could be hear over the gun fire. The gust of cold air flushing out the heat radiating from Holland's heated skin. Dirt and sand blasting onto his weathered face. Help had arrived.

Holland snapped back to the present as his phone buzzed. He glanced at the caller ID. It was Claire. He quickly picked up the call and pressed the phone to his ear.

"Claire?" he whispered, he sounded out of breath.

"I'm here," she replied, "is something wrong Elliot?"

"No nothing," Elliot stated and looked around himself. He was standing in a busy mall, sitting at a fountain. His teammates were fooling around in a nearby shop on the other side of the wide shopping center. It was bustling with activity. How did he get here?

"Did something happen?" He asked.

"I told you already," she sighed, "I drove through a tunnel. I'm in the mall where are you?"

"I'm sitting by the, uh," Elliot looked around and behind him, "fountain in the middle of the mall."

"Okay," she said, "I'll be there in a few minutes."

Holland was nervous, hell he might have been having a nervous breakdown. It was the first time in almost a year since he had seen his wife. The last time he ever talked to her was four months ago before the operations started. He felt like the was on his first date, his finger tapping on the thigh of his leg. The tapping of his foot and the sweat slick skin of his body. His heart was pounding against the inside of his chest. Elliot's head started to think, thoughts filled his head.

_How do I greet her? Hi Claire! No, too nonchalant. Long time no see. No, makes me seem like an asshole of a husband._

Elliot scratched his clean shaven chin and looked up to see a certain someone in the crowd of faceless people. She was beautiful, her cerulean eyes looking around for him as her blonde disheveled hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Sure she was slim for her age but she was looking fantastic after having her first child. Her slim arm wrapped around her belly with concern, it always seemed cute to Elliot that she was always worried. Cerulean eyes snapped to Elliot. He stood up and brushed himself off, approaching her. With a nervous smile, the Green Beret scratched his head.

"Uh," Elliot murmured and unsurely said, "hi."

"Come here," she whimpered and wrapped her arms around him.

The pair were unable to hold back tears.

"I missed you," Elliot sniffled, "so much."

"I missed you too," Claire breathed, "you were never good at greetings."

"Ha," Elliot said, "one of the features you married me for."

The two held each others and arms length, before Elliot gave his significant other a small peck on the lips.

"Now what is it you wanted to tell me?" Claire asked.

"I'm," he murmured, thinking hard about the words, "leaving the service."

"Really?" she squealed, "It must have been hard to decide."

"Yeah, really hard."

"Hey Top!" he heard someone yell, "we going to catch a bite?"

Holland turned around to see a certain someone on crutches. With a small smile, he pulled Claire towards him. Another woman walked towards him and gave the injured man a small ice cream cone. The two giggled as Elliot patted the wounded soldier on the shoulder.

"Claire," Holland greeted, "Kara Logan. I'm sure you've already met McGuire."

"Nice to meet you Kara," his wife shook hands with the younger woman, "and of course the charming McGuire. I'm surprised that you've managed to bag someone."

"She saved my life Mrs. Master Sergeant," McGuire looked up at Holland and winked, "and course I'm not going to die on the boss yet."

"Come on you bastard," Holland laughed, "let's go get some lunch."


	4. SERE Part One

Sailing in the Persian Gulf was Task Force 214, comprised of one supercarrier, two missile cursers, three destroyers and a single submarine, Task Force 214 was one of the most advanced naval task force in the middle east region during the second decade of the early two thousands. The sun hung low over the horizon as the day began for the men and women of the USS George H.W. Bush.

Lieutenant Commander Drake "Piledriver" Bumpkins walked down the bustling halls after having a short briefing on the flight plans and routes. Part of VFA-102 Diamondbacks, they were one of two naval fighter wings on the carrier. His WSO (Wizzo) walked right behind him for the younger, Lieutenant Tom "Hotdog" Griffiths was taking the backseat to allow the higher-ranking officer to fly.

Bumpkins was twenty eight, single and one of the only remnants to walk down the hall having flown in the last few F-14D missions over Iraq. Having graduated flight school at eighteen, he was a prodigy for his age. The two walked into the locker rooms without much fuss, only stopping to salute a few crewmembers on the short trip down the corridor. The older officer ducked under the bulkhead to get into the room.

"Well look who it is!" a voice exclaimed from the far end of the room, "Piledriver and his sidekick Hotdog!"

"Nice to see you too Musky," Bumpkins replied with a small smile as he opened his locker, "what did you do today? Try to hit up another woman? I hope you didn't bother your wizzo."

"He didn't Drake," Lieutenant Commander Claire "Guns" Winters walked past the older man, patting him on the shoulder as she did.

"I'm not into older woman sir," Lieutenant George "Musky" Feldman said as he winked at the commander, "I do like them feisty however."

"Shut up and get suited. Wheels up in thirty," Winters grunted as she stepped out the door first to check on her aircraft.

"Yes mistress," Feldman groaned.

Bumpkins pulled on his g-suit, the pants tight round his crotch and his chest. Air bladders inflated automatically to keep blood in the head to prevent blacking out, not that Bumpkins needed any. He grabbed his helmet and his survival kit along with in-flight supplements. His lunch was already packed as the usual flights lasted anywhere from four to eight hours depending on the day.

"You ready Hotdog?" Bumpkins asked his Wizzo as the man pulled out his helmet.

"Yeah," the younger aviator replied, shuffling his steps from discomfort, "I just got a kink with the g-suit. I'm sure it'll work out when I'm in the seat."

"You first," Bumpkins said and gestured his head towards the door.

He followed the younger man out into the hallway with stairs leading upwards from the metal corridor. Like the light at the end of the tunnel, the doorway at the top of the stairs leaked with blinding white light. Bumpkins exited to a wide, deep blue sea spanning as far as the eye could see. The skies were bright and covered lightly with puffy white clouds. It was a perfect day to fly. Bumpkins found another set of stairs to take him up to the flight deck.

The pair came up on the other side of the aircraft carrier's island, the control tower standing tall on the on top of it. Men and women were finishing their FOD (Foreign Object Damage) walkdowns to clear the deck of any debris before the next batch of aircrafts took off. Bumpkins walked around the front of his strike-fighter. The rounded nose, the raised conformal fuel tanks on the wingstakes and the sharp paint of gunmetal grey gleaming in the early morning sun. It was Bumpkin's and Griffith's F/A-18F Super Hornet. It was sharp, it was elegant and it was, overall, beautiful in his eyes.

"I'll take that sir," a crewman walked over to him.

"Thank you Jeffers," Bumpkins nodded and gave the crewman his survival kit bag and helmet.

"Let's get started," Griffiths said with a smile on his lips. Naval aviators lived to fly and loved their aircraft like their wives. The pair broke off with Bumpkins taking the right side of the aircraft. He ran his hand through the smooth metal skin of the aircraft. Working by touch alone, he felt for any irregularities in the construction work and looked to see if all the red pins had been pulled out.

His eyes glanced at the payload they would be carrying. Six GBU-12 Paveway II five hundred pound bombs, two three hundred gallon fuel tanks, four medium range air to air missiles and two short range heat seekers, standard mission loadout. Bumpkins gave a small tug to the five hundred pound bombs and made sure they didn't drop from the jiggling. Then came the same flaps on the wings of the aircraft. With a small push, he could feel the resistance of the stabilizers.

Satisfied, Bumpkins walked over to the left of the aircraft where the ladders were waiting. He found the crew chief chatting with the subordinates as they patiently waited for the Bumpkins and Griffiths to finish their inspection.

"I heard one of the guys from Ordnance was messing around with someone from Deck crew," Bumpkins heard one of the crew chief's subordinates talking, "the shit didn't look too good."

"What's happening?" Bumpkins asked.

"Nothing sir," the crew chief replied quickly, "just boat gossip."

"I'm done," Griffiths reported, "everything looks in place."

"Alright then let's get strapped in," Bumpkins said before turning to the crew chief, "and what's up with orddie and someone from deck?"

"Nothing much sir," the crew chief replied, "just the boys having a little scrimmage from pent up stress that's all."

"It's good to let it out once in a while," Bumpkins said as he climbed up the ladder and into the cockpit.

"Amen to that," the crew chief stated, close behind Bumpkins. Sitting down in the cockpit, Bumpkins took the survival kit from the crew chief and placed it in the ejection seat's parachute pack. The crew chief pulled the straps and clipped Bumpkins into the chair before giving him the thumbs-up. Bumpkins donned the helmet and connected the oxygen mask into the aircraft's system. He gave one final thumbs-up to the crew chief as he felt the even older man pat him on the shoulder before descending the ladder.

Bumpkins flicked a few switches and slowly turned the aircraft on. First came electrical power, then the radios before he switched on the auxiliary generator. The roar of the generator whirled to life in Bumpkin's ear. His left hand flicked a switch to lower the canopy onto the aircraft's frame. The whizzing of the locks sealed the two inside the cockpit with a soft clank.

Bumpkin's helmet made him look like an alien, the small bump at the top protruding out like a tumor. The JMHCS (Joint Mounted Helmet Cueing System) tracked his head when he used the heat seeking missiles and it also displayed the aircraft's information wherever he looked. Bumpkin looked right to see Musky and Guns next to him, powering up their aircraft. Bumpkin saw Musky giving him a small little 'rock-on' hand gesture. He replied in kind as he started the right engine.

An even louder one overtook the loud whirl. The engine spooling up penetrated even his well sound-dampened helmet. Bumpkin leaned over and looked under the aircraft's forward leading edge extension to see the fans spinning in a blur of speed. With Griffiths confirming the right engine at working power, Bumpkin switched the engine crank to the left engine and turned off the auxiliary power unit. The roar in his ears died down, only to be replaced by the soft humming of the two main turbofans.

"Radio check," Piledriver said, holding his oxygen mask up to his face for his voice to transmit.

"I read you five by five," Guns replied as Piledriver nodded with satisfaction.

The aircraft systems ran it's built-in test while Piledriver ran over his mission notes and reviewed his mission objective. His flight, callsign Snake Three, was slated to fly over the eastern borders of Afghanistan and Pakistan.

Departing at 0735 Hours, the pair of Super Hornets would fly from the Persian Gulf all the way to central Afghanistan to refuel before doing a CAP (Combat Air Patrol) over the Afghan-Pakistani Border. Their objective was the same as usual, provide air support for ground units. Piledriver estimated a mission time of six hours at least inside the uncomfortable seats. It was a little more than a metal box with a thin cushion slapped on top to prevent bruising to the bottoms.

With both of the aircrafts powered up and systems green, Piledriver did one final check of the warning lights. He leaned over the dashboard of the aircraft and gave a small gesture to the crew chief. Two thumbs out and pointing away from each other. 'Remove the chalks.' One of his subordinates ran under the aircraft to retrieve six large, rectangular blocks from under the aircraft while the crew chief stood a few feet in front of the aircraft with his light cones in hand, waiting.

"Snake Three, Avenger," Piledriver spoke as he clipped the oxygen mask into his helmet, "ready for takeoff."

"Roger that Snake Three, taxi onto catapults one and two. Both of you are number two for take off," the control tower replied.

Piledriver pushed onto the rudder pedals and nudged the throttle forward. Jets of blazing heat were ejected from the exhaust of the two turbofans as they revved up. The crew chief noticed the change in volume and raised his light cones, waving the aircraft forward. Piledriver released the brakes and eased the aircraft forwards. Turning left, he flicked a switch, lowering the folded wingtips. He glanced back to see the tips locking into place with a slight shudder and a clank.

In front of him, two Marine F-35Bs were waiting to takeoff. Their dark gray finish showing their relatively new age compared to the F/A-18F Super Hornets Piledriver sat in. The two Marine F-35B's single engine glowed with a bright blue flame as they prepared to take off. Behind them, giant jet blast deflectors were raised to divert skin-melting heat from burning anything behind it. Their jagged nose slightly depressed into the deck as two wheels and the shuttle held the entire bird in place was stopping the thrust from the single engine.

The movement of the shooter caught Piledriver's eyes. His yellow jacket flapped in the breeze as he knelt down and pointed his right finger in the shape of a gun at the sea. Piledriver's ears heard a dull thump as the F-35Bs became a blur of grey. The aircraft shot forward like a speeding bullet into the sky. Before you knew it, the aircraft that sat on the catapult was a dark speck in the vast blue sky.

"Snake Three," the radio crackled in Piledriver's ears, "you are cleared onto the catapults."

Piledriver watched the slabs of heated metal fold down before pushing up the throttle. The Super Hornet slid forward smoothly as his eyes were focused on the yellow shirt's directing hands. Applying careful and gently pressure on the rudder pedals, Piledriver maneuvered the F/A-18's nose wheel onto the catapult. The yellow shirt held his fists up in the air and signaled Piledriver to stop.

"It's almost time for the rollercoaster," Musky spoke on the radio.

"What," Hotdog scoffed, "you cream yourself every time you get shot down the CAT? Maybe it's why Guns keeps berating you for being a kid, Musky."

"At least she decided to keep this lonely puppy," Musky shot back as Piledriver looked at Musky's aircraft.

"Guns," Piledriver breathed, "how do you keep up with this kid as your driver?"

"It's called a whip, Piledriver."

"Shit, she did not just go there." The four had a laugh, Piledriver's eyes watched the shuttle slowly slid back along the catapult's three hundred feet. The automatic system took out valuable men as three white shirts disappeared under the aircraft and the yellow shirt dropping his right hand down. Piledriver dropped the shuttle hook to latch on to the small piece of metal wedged between the F/A-18's nose wheel. With the hook up finished, the crew waited patiently for Piledriver to give them the signal.

"Snake Three, tower," the voice buzzing in his ear, "you are cleared for takeoff heading one two zero. Contact AWACS when airborne at frequency one four five tac one zero. QFE 2992 with wind at eight knots bearing one seven six, God Speed Snake Three."

Piledriver did a final controls check or a 'wipe-out'. His right hand circling the joystick while his feet depressed the pedals. Piledriver glanced backwards, he saw the surfaces moving up and down with a positive whizz. With one final check of the instruments and warning lights, Piledriver was ready to take to the skies.

"Snake Three," Piledriver spoke into the radio as he saluted the yellow shirt and pushed the throttle up to afterburners, "cleared for takeoff, one two zero. Contact AWACS at one four five tac one zero, Snake Three acknowledges. We'll see you in time for dinner Avenger…that is, unless we get shot down."

"You won't Snake Three."

The yellow shirt knelt down and pointed his finger at the rocking sea. Within a heartbeat, Piledriver found himself pushed back into the ejection seat. His head felt like a giant boulder on his shoulders as the aircraft shuddered and shook. The Super Hornet shot down the catapult like a bullet, going from zero to one hundred and seventy miles an hour in just a mere two seconds. With the blink on of an eye, Piledriver felt his stomach start to float and he instinctively pulled back on the stick.

"Snake Three One," Piledriver said and hear a loud groan from under the aircraft, "airborne. Gears up."

"Snake Three Two right behind ya," he heard Musky report.

"Snake Three passing the seven nautical mile mark. We'll see you Avenger," Piledriver said a final farewell to the carrier's tower and pulled the stick towards his chest. The F/A-18F shot up into the sky, ascending like a rocket. Piledriver punched through the clouds and as the white mist cleared. The bright sun shined even brighter above the clouds, Piledriver pulled down the sun visor and leveled his aircraft.

"Setting this bad boy to autopilot," Piledriver sighed as pulled off his oxygen mask.

"What are you doing Piledriver?" Musky asked, the younger pilot easing his aircraft even closer in formation.

"What the hell does it look like I'm doing?" Piledriver replied and pulled out a small metal box from his survival kit bag, "I'm having brunch."

"Brunch?" Musky scoffed, "Seriously?"

"Yeah Musky, seriously," Hotdog replied, Piledriver looking up to see Hotdog pulling out the same box in the aircraft's rearview mirror. He opened the box and looked over to Musky's aircraft, seeing Guns pull out her own box. The only person without a lunch was Musky. The poor kid was just dropped in to replace a leaving officer not even four days ago. Even then, he was still a pain in the ass.

Piledriver took small bites of his sausage, bacon, eggs and rice, trying hard to savor the taste of food. They were going to miss lunch and boy did he love food. His eyes drifted from the HUD (Heads-Up Display) towards the right MFCD (Multi-Function Color Display), blips of triangle contacts jittered across the screen as the aircraft's radar scanned the airways. Nothing out of the ordinary, considering the Afghans don't have any aircraft and all of them were running NATO transponders.

"What did you make Piledriver?" Guns asked, "Something with rice I assume?"

"Yeah, bacon, eggs, sausages and rice. Your usual American breakfast with an Asian twist," Piledriver laughed, taking a breath or two from his oxygen mask every so often.

"Oh come on," Musky moaned, "do these two always flirt with each other on and off the boat?"

"It's a brother sister thing," Piledriver shot back.

"Sure," Hotdog scoffed, "could have fooled me."

Piledriver ignored to comment as he concentrated on his food, the two aircraft flying in extreme close formation. With the left wingtip of Piledriver's aircraft just a few feet away from Musky's canopy, a nudge of the stick left would send it crashing through the Plexiglas.

Minutes passed as they three finished their brunch. Who knew that sitting in a seat for three hours was going to take a toll on you. Piledriver yawned and looked down at his radar display, the TACAN (Tactical Air Navigation System) placing the tanker at fifty miles from them. It was about time the four got on station.

"Tanker's fifty miles out," Piledriver said and turned off the autopilot, "time to get on station."

Piledriver placed the flight on an intercept vector. His eyes were out of the cockpit and scanning the skies for the big tanker that would be refueling him. With a few minutes passing by without so much as a sign of the camel, a speck in the distance appeared in the midst of white and blue. Piledriver looked down at his mission notes. Texaco Three Two, KC-130J flying for six hours on station just southwest of Piledriver's squadron's area of operations.

"Texaco Three Two, Snake Three, requesting rejoin."

There was a short pause.

"Roger that Snake Three," the radio crackled, "I've got you on my schedule. Cleared in until end of your time on station."

"Roger that Texaco Three Two. Much appreciated," Piledriver said, the speck growing into the size of a small marble.

"Texaco Three Two flying bearing three zero two at angels fifteen thousand, three hundred and twenty knots."

"Snake Three vectoring to your position," Piledriver breathed and kept his eyes on the growing speck of black.

"Sure am hungry," Musky said from his cockpit.

"Oh yeah?" Hotdog snickered, "why don't you ask your mistress to give you some food."

"Sorry Musky," Piledriver could imagine a sly smile spreading on her lips, "I ate all of it."

"Funny," Musky huffed, "very funny. Just gang up on the new guy."

The small dot kept growing and it soon turned into a four-engine turboprop tanker. Grey metal of the aircraft's frame blended in with the backdrop of the blue and white sky, four drogues trailed behind the fuel tanks housing the juice needed to keep the Strike-Fighters afloat and flying. Without it, they would become useless beasts sitting in a junkyard back in the states.

The two Super Hornets crept up slowly behind the giant tanker. Piledriver kept his eyes glued on the drogue. Like the shuttlecock of badminton, Piledriver would have to stick a probe into the opening. Piledriver used two fingers to ease the aircraft towards the drogue.

"Snake Three," Piledriver breathed into the oxygen mask, "in pre-contact position."

"Roger that Snake Three, you are cleared for contact."

Piledriver glanced to his left to see Musky in deep concentration with Guns looking over his shoulder. Even pilots with numerous amounts of experience still miss the drogue on windy days and Guns was experienced enough to direct the young nugget if he missed the target.

Piledriver's left hand automatically pulled down the refueling probe's lever. Door flaps opened to reveal a probe unfolding from the compartment. With the long metal tube locked into place, Piledriver gently pushed the throttle up. Ever so slightly, the Super Hornet eased forward as the turbofans whined a different pitch. The probe was just mere inches from contacting with the drogue.

"Almost there," Hotdog whispered as his head was poking over the backseat dashboard, "just another nudge of the throttle."

Piledriver responded and pushed the throttle up a slight bit more. The Super Hornet's mouth slotted into the drogue with a hiss of compressed air escaping the shuttlecock as fuel started to fill the aircraft. Piledriver gripped the joystick with his entire hand, keeping the aircraft stable with slight inputs into the joystick.

"Fuel confirmed flowing into our tanks," Hotdog reported as Piledriver glanced at his wingman.

Musky was still having a problem with his drogue. Just as Piledriver connected with the refueling basket, the wind picked up and drove the shuttlecock fluttering with the wind stream. Musky was getting impatient and Piledriver could see the young pilot trying to force the probe into the swaying basket.

"Musky," Guns instructed, "back off the throttle!"

"Fuck!" Musky yelled into his mask and let the aircraft slip back.

"Now go in again," Guns sighed, "and gently."

Piledriver tried to keep an eye on both Musky and the drogue, but it was harder than he imagined. The rear elevators of the Super Hornet jittering with control inputs as Piledriver fought hard to keep the aircraft flying stable in the dangerous mix of shifting winds and bad aircraft from the KC-130J.

He watched briefly as Musky drove the F/A-18F towards the tanker. The probe crept in close to the basket, this time about to slot itself into the drogue before the wind swatted it in another direction. Piledriver heard Musky take a deep breath and ease the Super Hornet off slightly before sliding the aircraft back towards the basket. Piledriver saw the probe a few feet away from the shuttlecock before the basket snapped back in Musky's direction and contacted the probe with a hiss of condensed air.

"Contact," Guns said with a sigh of relief, "fueling is flowing into our tanks."

"Texaco, Snake," the radio crackled, "nugget flying his first in theater tanking mission?"

"Negative," Guns replied, "he's just impatient."

"Next time nugget," the tanker's pilot spoke, "take a chill pill before trying to take one of my drogues home with you."

"Roger that Captain Boiler," Musky shot back, "I'll keep that in mind."

"Quite a temper that one."

Musky harrumphed, his right hand jiggling the stick to keep the strike-fighter in place. It was exhausting trying to refuel the aircraft, the mental concentration needed to keep two aircraft in close formation with wind batting at the fuel hose made it near impossible to focus. Piledriver was close to being mentally exhausted when Hotdog spoke over the comms.

"Snake Three One," Hotdog spoke over the radio, "topped off."

Piledriver sighed inwardly and pulled the throttle back towards him. The Super Hornet slid backwards, the probe folding back into the aircraft as it banked right to clear the KC-130J's propwash. Piledriver felt a feeling of relief wash over him. The F/A-18F flew just off the KC-130J's right wingtip, waiting for it's partner to finish refueling. Piledriver's eyes snapped forward as he saw a giant, white cloud floating towards them. He braced for impact against floating vapor.

The metal frame started to shake, trails of water streaming across the canopy glass. Light darkened as a mist of grey clouded the view of the outside. Piledriver kept his eyes glued straight forward, any doubts could send the strike-fighter and the tanker into a fireball of death. The three aircraft shot out the other side of the clouds with trails of opaque, foggy string weaved itself behind the prop engines of the KC-130J.

"Snake Three Two," Guns reported, "topped off and ready to go."

"Roger that Snake Three Two, have a nice flight guys. I hope to see you soon to deliver some of your gas enroute back home," the pilot of the tanker said.

"Thanks Texaco Three Two," Piledriver said, jerking the stick right and placed his Super Hornet in a dive, "we'll see you soon."

Piledriver felt the strain from the g-forces, the F/A-18F diving right for the Earth. The pilot started to lose altitude and gain speed. Although it would give them a short burst of speed, the fuel efficiency wouldn't be as good. The pair went back to level flight shortly after and headed towards the area of operations at four hundred and fifty knots.

"Hey Piledriver," Musky chirped from his aircraft, "I bet you fifty bucks that I'll get more mud than you today."

"You sure about the nugget?" Piledriver asked.

"Oh yeah," Musky said with overflowing arrogance that Piledriver once had in his youth, "I'll beat you any day old man."

With that said, the pair entered the combat zone and immediately got a call from the AWACS. Tasked with close air support of a Marine battalion being pinned down with enemy fire from the border, both aircrafts made best speed towards the designated area.

Flat desert plains started to turn into rolling hills and morphed into jagged, towering mountains that poked high above the mist below. The color had changed from brown and boring into green and lush, it would make the friendlies much easier to spot on their AN/ASQ-228 ATFLIR (Advanced Thermal Forward Looking Infrared) pods. Heat signatures stood out much better in the cooler forest region.

Piledriver began his radio talks with the guys on the ground.

"Snake 3 to Hammer 1-1," Piledriver spoke, " 2 times F/A-18F, fifteen miles northeast of IP Ford at 15,000. We have GBU-12 Paveways and targeting pods equipped. Playtime is plus 30, available for tasking. What do you have for us?"

There was a silence as the two jets roared over the mountains, the sound echoed and being carried along the naturally reverberating shapes of the sierras. The naval aviator was about to repeat as a transmission shattered the uneasy silence.

"Snake 3, this is Hammer 1-1," the radio crackled with the sound of gunfire cracking in the background, "type 3 in effect. Advise when ready for 9-liner."

"Snake 3 to Hammer 1-1, ready to copy," Piledriver replied and banked the aircraft left, he started to circle the area.

"Line is as follows, Ford. 013, 30 nautical miles, 8,500 feet MSL, foot mobiles, HK362183, marked by laser, no factor and egress to Ford. Advise for when ready for remarks and further talk-on."

"Hammer 1-1 this is Snake 3, ready to copy remarks," Piledriver banked the aircraft right to head another fifteen miles towards the pinned down troops.

"Use two GBU-12s. Partly cloud sky with cloud base at 12,000 feet MSL."

"Hammer 1-1 this is Snake 3, 4,500 feet, HK362183."

"Readback correct. Snake 3, standby for point."

A beep drew Piledriver's eyes towards the right display. Information from the JTAC's radio through the aircraft's internet called Link 16. Orders popped up on his display with the waypoint not far away from Piledriver. He was close, and hoped that the troops on the ground would hold on long enough for him to get there.

The two F/A-18Fs soared over the target area. Hotdog sat in the backseat and slewed the targeting pod onto target. He saw the heat sources on one of his five displays. One large group of humanoid white was huddled behind a wall of a house and it's surrounding obstacles. Rays of white light darting past them with a puff of grey as they impacted the ground behind, Hotdog assumed they were friendlies.

"Piledriver," Hotdog yelled from the backseat, "I think I got them!"

"I got this one boss," Musky said.

"Alright," Piledriver said and kept his aircraft high in the sky to over watch the area, "I'm handing it off to you, Musky."

The Lieutenant Commander looked left to see his wingman peel off from the formation. Banking left, the Super Hornet showed its belly to Piledriver before disappearing below him. He brought the aircraft into a right turn and circled above the battlefield. Naturally, he couldn't see anything. It was too far up for anyone to see anything except for the green tops of the trees covering the forest down below.

"Hammer 1-1, this is Snake 3-2, contact the mark."

"Roger that Snake 3-2, from the mark north west three hundred meters."

Gunfire intensified from the radio. Piledriver heard a bang before the transmission had cut. He felt helpless from the sky. He wished he could have been a first responder, the one that wrapped a bandage around the troops wound and carried the injured off to the evacuation helicopter. But, dropping bombs to prevent all that would have to do. Piledriver had no intention of being killed by a stray bullet.

"Hammer 1-1, Snake 3-2, in from the west."

"Snake 3-2, cleared hot!"

Piledriver didn't see anything, until a small blur of grey darted beneath him. The blur skimmed the treetops before pulling straight up into a climb up towards the clouds, so much for saving fuel. He knew that the nugget was fully capable of doing the CAS mission. What Piledriver didn't want, was overconfidence. Too much of that would get him hit by a lucky RPG and maybe even an American made Stinger MANPADs missile.

Musky had gone over the top and was looping back towards Piledriver for formation flight. Lush forests of green disappeared under a cloud of brown and black. The five hundred pound bombs had exploded on impact, hopefully killing the aggressors on the ground. Hotdog watched intently from the back of the aircraft. It didn't bother him that Piledriver wanted to fly the aircraft, after all, the Lieutenant Commander did commandeer the aircraft before being forced back into the wizzo seat.

Streaks of white erupted from underneath the tower of smoke and dirt. The enemy wasn't about to give up.

"Piledriver," Hotdog spoke up from the back, "we've got enemy fire coming from the smoke!"

"Hammer 1-1 to Snake 3, requesting a show of force over the area!"

"Your turn boss," Musky replied, just off of Piledriver's left wing.

"Roger that Hammer 1-1, Snake 3 running in from West to East."

Piledriver flicked the stick right and dived towards the ground. He looked up to align himself with the smoke stack. His hands pulled hard on the F/A-18F's stick, loading himself with Gs. Hotdog looked back from his seat to check their six out of habit. Metal flexed as the wings shook with stress. Vapor trails extended from the wingtips, the cockpit shaking. Piledriver exhaled. The Super Hornet skimmed low over the trees.

From the cockpit, the ground looked like a blur of green. Wind buffeted the aircraft from the ground. Hitting 480 miles per hour just a few dozen feet above the ground would do that. Piledriver banked left and pulled hard. The F/A-18F hugged the smoke stack like glue, shooting out the turn like a speeding rocket. Piledriver hugged the mountain as he climbed. Grey metal following the contour of the rocks before shooting up into the sky, that's when Hotdog spotted something he shouldn't have.

"What the?" he whispered before his eyes enlarged.

"Mud launch, six o'clock low! Break right, break right!"

Piledriver's head snapped back to look over his left shoulder. One small glowing light grew in his visor just before the blaring of the missile warnings filled his ear. He flicked the stick and sent the aircraft into a barrel roll, his eyes on the glow as the aircraft spun. Piledriver was jolted to a stop. His body started to slide up in his seat. Flares shot out of the aircraft with a rhythmic thump before the F/A-18F dropped like a rock towards the ground.

In the blink of an eye, the Naval aircraft was skimming the mountains rocky outcroppings. The missile tracked with an uncanny mechanical precision, following the speeding aircraft. Piledriver kept the strike fighter flying just above the treetops.

A dull bang exploded behind him.

He looked back to see the missile impacting the mountains in a large plume of rock and dirt. Piledriver leveled the aircraft. His left hand jammed the throttle forward to hear the roar of two General Electric F414-EPE engines at full afterburner. With his helmet pushed into the seat, the Super Hornet shot up into the sky.

"Oh fuck!" Guns screamed on the radio, all womanly manners were thrown out the window, "Mud launch three o'clock, low!"

"I see it!" Musky screamed in response.

Piledriver leveled his aircraft just to see glowing orbs of orange in place of Musky's F/A-18F. One small trail of vapor shot right through the flares and arched downwards to follow his wingman. Piledriver was just about to report it to the AWACS when another alarm blared in his head. Quickly scanning the area around him, the missile warning system dotting throughout his aircraft told him the missile was right underneath them.

"Mud launch, twelve…no, six o'clock!" Hotdog reported quickly, the wizzo leaning over the cockpit to find the missile.

His helmet was practically glued to the glass.

"Visual," Piledriver grunted as he flicked the aircraft over into a dive, "Hawkeye 1, Hawkeye 1. This is Snake 3, we are engaged defensive."

Piledriver felt his body being thrown around in the ejection seat. He was essentially a toy inside the aircraft. Another series of thumps launched the flares out of the aircraft as the F/A-18F darted over the mountain ridge. Piledriver dove, climbed, turned and corkscrew to shake the missile. The missile exploded after failing to track the aircraft. It ran out of fuel and crashed itself into the forest.

"What that's impossible," the radio crackled, "the Taliban don't have that kind of hardware."

"Well fucking believe it Hawkeye," Piledriver shot back.

"Shit," Hotdog grunted, "another mud launch. Our four o'clock!"

Alarms blared again as Piledriver took his aircraft north. He F/A-18F flew hard and flew fast, the fuel being sucked out of its fuel tanks. The aircraft was hard to accelerate thanks to the bombs it was carrying along with its fuel. Those had to be jettison only in an emergency. They didn't want to waste the taxpayer's money.

"Commander!" Hotdog screamed.

"What is it Hotdog?" Piledriver yelled back, "I'm a bit busy here if you didn't notice!"

The Super Hornet did a quickly spiral before stabilizing itself and dived towards the ground. Trails of vapor streamed from the leading edges and wingtips as Piledriver looked at the G counter, 5.5 Gs. It wasn't a tight turn for the Super Hornet. The bombs and fuel tanks were making the aircraft sluggish to control inputs.

"It looks like they're driving us towards China!" Hotdog exclaimed.

"China?!"

There was dull thump. Piledriver looked back to see the missile explode just a couple feet behind the aircraft's blue afterburning flames. His head snapped forward to the displays. Musky and him were flying over the border. One small number popped up on his RWR (Radar Warning Receiver).

12.

"We're being spiked by a fucking Gargoyle?" Guns exclaimed in surprise.

"Hawkeye, Hawkeye, we are being mud spiked by an SA-12 just over the Chinese border. We are going to turn –" Piledriver's sentence was cut short.

Without a warning. Without so much of a radio transmission from the Chinese, a missile warning blared in Piledriver's cockpit. First one missile appeared on his HUD, then two, then three. The Chinese really wanted them dead. Piledriver twisted a dial on the left dashboard and then pressed the red button specifically told by his instructor not to be pressed when he was being trained to fly the Hornet.

A clank shook the aircraft as Hotdog glanced back to see their bombs and fuel tanks splitting off from their weapon pylons. With a flick of a switch, Piledriver removed the limiters on the Super Hornet. Its maximum G was 7.5, going above that meant damage to the airframe. Piledriver didn't care. He just wanted to get out of this alive and in one piece.

"Snake 3 engaged defensive, bull's-eye 340 for one hundred and fifty. Requesting CASEVAC!" Piledriver screamed into the oxygen mask.

The two F/A-18Fs were in a dance for their lives. Stress bent the wings in angles it was not mean to be bent in. Piledriver felt the aircraft starting to shake itself to pieces. The F/A-18 buckled and started shaking horribly. Piledriver eyed the G counter.

9.2 Gs.

Piledriver heard a loud bang. The sound of denting metal and shredding steel made him cringe. He was forced to look up, his head too heavy to move. It felt like a boulder sitting between his shoulders. His eyes saw a trail of smoke and a cloud of black. There was only one thing on his mind and he hoped it didn't happen.

Musky and Guns were shot down.

"Airmen down, airmen down!" Hotdog yelled.

Piledriver heard another loud bang. This one was even closer. Force making him jolt forward. His helmet smacked against metal dashboard. The displays in his cockpit flickered out, his HUD disappearing. Piledriver had a death grip on his stick before the realization hit him.

He had been hit.

Piledriver released his grip and looked back. He saw his wing still attached with black smoke coming out from the rear of the aircraft. Hotdog was unconscious, signs of blood dotting the canopy glass. Piledriver felt his body being jerked right. The F/A-18F was starting to spin. Both wings stripped itself from the fuselage of the aircraft with black oil spurting from its metallic wound. Like a meteor, the Super Hornet arched towards the ground. Black smoke shot from its engines as the remains were in an uncontrollable spin.

Piledriver's eyes started to see nothing but a blur of colors. He was starting to get dizzy and felt his stomach grumbling. His hands were fighting unseen forces to reach between his legs. After much fighting, his hands found the metal toggle. He tugged the toggle just as the darkness was about to consume his vision.

He heard a bang and blacked out.


	5. Life of a Pararescuemen

Soundtrack: Quietdrive - Until The End (Acoustic)

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Life of a Pararescuemen

Senior Airmen John Hume, 33d Rescue Squadron, two tours in Afghanistan. Hume had rescued more men than a small clinic could treat in a month. It was the beginning of his third tour and the first shift change for his unit. In an addition to his team, a new recruit fresh out of PJ Indoc had joined them for the ride. Summer time, the Taliban attacks were frequent and high during the hottest season of the year. Hume was from Hawaii and was used to the weather, his tanned skin making him different from the rest of his lobster red teammates.

The AM team was changing shifts with the PM team. Hume and fifteen others would be working from noon until 11 PM at night. The team would be hooking their gear up to the helicopter's passenger bay complete with blood packs, medical equipment and their own personal protective vests and gear. John was finish up his preparations and was waiting for blood packs along with extra medical gear to be stocked in the helicopter when the dreadful sound rang out from the airbase's speakers.

"Leroy Jenkins!" the speakers boomed as the automated audio clip played before the dispatcher spoke, "Pedros. Scramble, scramble, scramble."

"What the fuck?" John screamed, "What about the blood packs and other equipment?"

"AM team's bringing it!" John's senior, Gary yelled, "Get your gear on and get ready to dust off!"

John quickly pulled on his body armor and medical gloves, seeing the two other members of the team rushing to the helicopter. In their arms were boxes for blood packs while another two behind them had medical equipment. Slipping on his ballistic sunglasses and helmet, John jumped inside the helicopter to do the final check while waving goodbye to the AM shift guys. The rookie and another experienced pararescuemen were gearing up as the pilots started up the helicopter. Hot air started to blast into the passenger bay, the sound of rotors whirling before turning into a thundering thumping. Hume jacked the radio into his headset to hear the pilots talking.

"Pedro 3-2, spooled up and ready to lift," he heard the pilot report.

"Everyone ready?!" John screamed.

All three gave him a thumbs-up.

"PJ, Pilot, crew ready for dust off," John reported.

"Roger PJ, lifting off in one mike."

Hume reached for the right side door and slid the slab of metal shut. The rookie, Richard Smith, was still donning his helmet when the helicopter jerked forward. The HH-60 Pave Hawk soon took off and with it, the four pararescuemen. John looked out the window to see a plain of desert stretching as far as the eye can see with a few mountains poking above the horizon. Kandahar airbase was one of the few places that he felt slightly safe in, just slightly. Another helicopter was flying ahead of theirs. Pedro 3-1 was their lead helicopter with another batch of pararescuemen. Their job was to load seven more patients if need be and to provide air cover for Pedro 3-2 as they extracted the injured.

"Gary!" John screamed, "Gary! What does MIST say?!"

"Uh..." Gary muttered, looking at a small PDA device, "one CAT Alpha. Not amputated, GSW to chest and arm. Lost a lot of blood."

"Hey Rich," John screamed, "get an IV drip going and prep a blood pack just in case!"

"What?!" Richard yelled back, trying to hear over the rotorblades.

"I. V. I. V," John screamed back, making gestures with his hands, "and a blood pack!"

Richard passed Hume a clear plastic bag with clear liquid floating inside. He clipped the carabiner holding the IV bag to the top of the helicopter, a small radio wire holding the bag in place. Soon, there were bags holding various liquids hanging from the HH-60's ceiling with clear tubes cascading down from them. Extra preparations were made just in case there were more patients preparing to board the medevac helicopter. John was looking out the window when he saw Gary look down at his vest. The team leader reached into his pouch and pulled out the PDA, his eyebrows scrunching in curiosity before looking up at the other three.

"Change in the MIST!" MIST or Mechanism of injury, Injuries, Signs/Symptoms, Treatment, "two CAT Alphas and one CAT Bravo, IED, GSW to chest and arm along with IED, shrapnel to body!"

"Is that MIST for the other CAT Alpha and Bravo?" John screamed.

"Yeah!" Gary yelled back. "Jason," he spoke into his headset microphone, "we are taking all injured, copy?"

"Check," came the short reply.

"Pilot, CRO," the pilot spoke.

"CRO, go ahead," Combat Rescue Officer Gary replied.

"Exit's on right side the dude," the pilot stated.

"Check."

Hume kept watch over the horizon as they flew towards their HLZ (Helicopter Landing Zone) just twenty to thirty miles from the airbase. He hoped that the patient would be delivered to the hospital within the golden hour. One hour was all that stood between life and death. Shortly after the golden hour, the chance of survival would drop off dramatically. The two tour veteran felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Gary tapping his watch on the left wrist along with flashing his finger fingers.

They were five minutes out.

John pulled open the right door and felt the gust of cold wind rush into the passenger bay. It felt good. The ground below looked absolutely staggering for a war torn country. Mountains rose from their left with white snow capped peaks, huge lakes of glimmering blue water slid by below them and the blue sky with a few clouds behind them as the two helicopters banked right towards the ground. Hume sat on the edge of the helicopter and grabbed onto the rail while the HH-60M Pave Hawk banked. Soon, they were flying just a few hundred feet above the rooftops. Hume flicked the safety off and racked the charging handle of his M4A1 Carbine to chamber a bullet.

The Senior Airmen glanced left to see his helicopter's flight engineer racking the M2 Browning Machine Gun. None of the bullets in the belt were moving into the machine gun. This looked bad. Another pull and still nothing. Looks like the gun wasn't feeding correctly. Hume couldn't hear anything over the rotorblades chopping the air. He saw the flight engineer lift up the Browning's cover before slamming it back down and pulling on the charging handle.

Nothing.

"Hey Gary!" Hume yelled.

"Yeah?" he replied.

"What's up with the right gun?"

"It's hard bent!" Hard bent, slang for broken.

John could hear the pilots talk but the constant, loud thumping of the blades made it hard for him to hear even with ear protection. If the right gun failed, they might have to resort to the M249 Squad Automatic Weapon back-up they had inside the helicopter. Loud heavy, metallic thumps exploded in his ears as Hume turned to see the left door gunner testing his own machine gun with lethal results. He gave a thumbs up to the pilots before resuming his duty of watching the ground below. Then, Hume could hear good news over the faint radio transmissions.

"Uh," the voice muttered, "I got the right gun back online again."

A series of heavy thumps exploded close to him.

"Yeah, it's working again," the flight engineer on the right gun reported.

"That is fucking awesome dude," the pilot replied.

They were close to the HLZ, only a few minutes left before they would be on the ground. He knew nothing except that they were picking up American soldiers twenty to thirty miles from Kandahar Airbase. It was their job to put their lives on the line, and just like their motto, so that 'others may live.' Hume felt the helicopter jerk left, his arm quickly grabbing onto the rail by the door.

"One, defending. I have a missile launch warning and I can't see the trail," the pilot quickly reported.

Pops and fizzes exploded from the rear of the chopper in the form of glowing orange balls. Flares were being launched to protect the helicopter against enemy heatseeking rockets and missiles. The HH-60M banked right once more to zigzag towards the HLZ. Just as fast as it came, the threat was gone. They were now circling the landing zone and were waiting for the friendly forces to signal that it was all clear. It had to be swept of IEDs and mines or else the helicopter crew itself would become the injured.

"Alright," the pilot spoke up, "the ground team says it's clear. 3-2's going in to land."

"Roger, 3-1's cover."

"PJs," the pilot called, "expect a brown out!"

The helicopter leveled off and pitched up to land. Brownout, or a visual restriction usually from sand or dust from the helicopter's rotor downwash. This made it extremely dangerous for both the pilots and the PJs. Both can't see the enemy beyond the cloud of dust and made them extremely vulnerable to incoming fire. As the HH-60M closed distance with the HLZ and the ground, a cloud of dust erupted from underneath the helicopter. It was being blown away by the powerful rotors and encased the helicopter like a hurricane, with the chopper being the eye of a brown storm.

"Twenty, fifteen, ten, five, tail...brakes," the pilot called out the altitude in feet as John felt a sudden jolt.

"Clipping out," Gary reported, the four men pulling out their radio jacks connecting them with the helicopter's communication.

Hume hopped off the helicopter right after Richard and Gary with his other teammate, Finn, bringing up the rear. The four crouched down right next to the passenger door. Dust, dirt and sand blew all around the Pave Hawk. It was too dangerous to venture blind. For all they knew, enemy fire could cut down the entire team there and then. Hume wanted to take the risk to walk through the fog of war. It was their job after all so that others may live. John saw movement from his peripheral vision. He glanced over to see the pilot's hand waving towards the helicopter's left, just off the nose.

Gary looked back and screamed, "follow me!"

Gary got up, calmly walking straight out from the helicopter to avoid the hot exhaust and turned towards the direction that the pilot waved at. Nothing but brown clouds. Slowly, the fog of dust parted ways to reveal Army soldiers standing around two stretchers and a female. It seemed like a camera crew was also there and the female was a reporter or attached journalist. Gary instantly went to the medic for information as Richard and Finn helped the two men load the stretchers onto the helicopter.

Hume was left with the female reporter.

"Are you okay ma'am?!" Hume screamed over the sound of the rotorblades.

"Y-y-yes!" the reporter screamed back, "I have a couple of scratches here and there but my leg's broken from the IED blast!"

"Okay ma'am," Hume replied, "get on my back! I'll carry you to the helicopter!"

The reporter hesitated for a second before jumping on Hume's back. Her leg was bandaged up and a makeshift splint was wrapped around it. Hume could feel her weight against his back as he shuffled forwards. As if on cue, all hell started to break loose. One single bullet zinged right by his ear, a ricochet bouncing off the helicopter's metal skin. The chopper was a giant bullet magnet and was the biggest target for an ambush.

"Contact!" the Army soldiers screamed.

"John," Gary yelled from behind him, "get her on the fucking helicopter! I'll cover you!"

Hume ran the same pattern. Straight down, adjacent from the helicopter and straight in. He placed the reporter on the helicopter's deck and eased her inside while Gary fired off rounds right behind him. The flight engineers were stoic, their eyes scanning the cloud of dust for any Taliban that might be running through the fog and inside the the rotor disc or area around the helicopter. There were many attempts at suicide bombing on a helicopter before and this was not going to be the last. John hopped in and immediately raised his rifle as Richard and Finn had started treatment on the patient.

"Everyone's in!" John yelled into the microphone as he connected himself to the helicopter's comms and saw Gary mounting the Pave Hawk, the CRO closing the door behind him.

"Everyone's accounted for, Pedro 3-2 dusting off," the pilots reported, "hold on."

Hume felt his stomach lurch, the helicopter dangerously exploding upwards into the air and pitching forward. The burst of speed carried the aircraft out of the brown smoke and straight into the air. He could hear the thumping of Pedro 3-1's M2 Brownings hammering the enemy on the ground with fifty caliber bullets. The helicopter was climbing rapidly to cruise altitude as they banked left towards the NATO hospital.

"Contact, contact muzzle flare at eight o'clock low," Hume heard one of the flight engineers call out the targets.

Another series of pings echoed inside the helicopter.

"Holy shit that was right on," the pilot muttered.

"Three dudes, you see that?" the co-pilot reported, "they look like they have RPG tubes."

"Climbing," the pilot replied.

Hume hooked his rifle up the back wall, the carabiner hanging from the back of his rifle's buttstock. He paid no heed to the reporter. She might be civilian but the two other patients were Catagory Alpha or severe. He did a quick blood sweep to see if he was injured anywhere else and started to pack the gun shot wounds with bandages to soak up the blood. Then, a quick shot of Ketamine to dull the pain before inserting an IV drip into the neck of his elbow to deliver blood. Gary helped him, making sure everything was okay.

"Hey buddy," Gary said as he patted the soldier's face, "you're okay. You're going to make it, okay?"

The soldier merely moaned and lifted up his left arm, forming an okay sign.

"That's it," Gary replied with a reassuring nod, "stay with us buddy."

"Hey!" Hume heard Finn scream, "hey! Blood sweep!"

Richard skipped steps. His face looked like a man who was processing information far too slowly. Some had to become accustomed to the information overload while others adapt fairly quickly. The blood sweep was vital, it was to check if there were any injuries they didn't find or know about. Richard did the blood sweep and quickly went to insert an IV drip. Gary on the other hand, was busy with the soldier's left leg. It was amputated, blown off by the IED. The lead pararescuemen was busy trying to get a tourniquet to clamp down the bleeding.

"IV's not working!" Richard screamed, holding up the needle and shaking his head.

"Go for an IO!" Gary yelled a reply as his medical gloves were drenched in blood.

An Intraosseous Infusion was an operation that injected blood straight into the bone marrow. It was going to hurt the soldier and bad. Hume quickly jumped to action, slipping a syringe of Ketamine into the soldier's blood stream before letting Richard perform the IO. The rookie pulled out a red apparatus that looked like rotary saw except the tip had a giant, sharp needle. He fitted another needle like device onto it and rolled the soldier onto his side. Slowly, Richard pushed the needle into the soldier's shoulder and heard the agonizing scream erupt from the man's mouth.

"It's just going to hurt for a bit!" Finn assured just as Richard pulled the IO inserter out and plugged in a blood pack tube.

Red liquid spiraled down into a small device before going into the soldier's IO. He was receiving blood that would probably save his life. The screaming subsided to a moan as the four pararescuemen continued to treat the patients. They were within the golden hour alright. Pedro 3-2 arrived at the helipad only fifty minutes into the golden hour, the HH-60M touching down right next to an ambulance.

Hume slammed open the door to see two Army soldiers rushing out to get their comrade. Gary and Finn went into the first ambulance with the patient while Richard and Finn went into the next with the reporter and the less critical soldier. The two soldiers were sent straight into the examination bay and then into the surgery room. Gary and Finn were giving the doctors information while Hume handed off the reporter.

A female Army nurse was waiting for him.

"What have you got?" she asked, flashing a smile.

"She's got a broken right leg, splint. Minor incarcerations and scratches from shrapnel. Otherwise she's okay," Hume reported as the nurse nodded.

"Thanks guys," she said patting him on the back, "we'll take her from here."

John lingered for a few minutes longer, waiting for his brothers as they watched the men being wheeled away on medical beds. As they turned to walk back to their helicopters, the three of them patted Richard on the back. It was his first day and he was doing better than expected. Back on the helicopter, John stared at the blood on the deck. So much maroon blood staining the black metal. The stench and sight of drying blood was forever burned into the back of his head. But this was war, it was real and it was gritty.

The Pave Hawk was back in Kandahar Airbase, it's pilots flying the metal bird into it's final traffic pattern before landing it back on the helipad. The emotion was raw still, visceral like the war around it. John had felt it before and there were no words to describe it. He tried to describe it to his father, mother and siblings back home but not no avail. What was it, that feeling of doing your best to save someone's life before they passed away? Satisfaction that you saved a life, regret that you could have done something better, guilt that you didn't move fast enough?

He would never know.

Metal shuddered, his body jerked forward slightly and the helicopter came to a complete stop. Whines escaped the engines as they spooled down and the rotors slowing to a slow circle while the pilots shut down the aircraft. John slid the door open and jumped off, taking off his vest and helmet. He hooked the gear back on it's place at the rear wall of the Pave Hawk. The same was done to his rifle with the carabiner at the back of the buttstock. He turned around to see the lead helicopter's crew coming up to congratulate Richard on a job well done.

"Hey good job buddy," Jason, the Pedro 3-1's CRO, praised Richard.

"Yeah, out-fucking-standing work out there man," Finn rubbed the rookie's head.

"We'll make a combat rescue crewmen out of you yet," John said with a small smile.

"Thanks guys," Richard grunted as he hooked up his gear, "means a lot to me."

"You know what means alot to me?" the pilot said taking off his helmet, the radio/mouth shield combo, "helping me clean up the blood on Jessica."

"Yes sir, Lieutenant Hardass sir," Gary sighed as the pilot laughed, "I'm the only one keeping you and your patients alive Lieutenant."

The four plus the four flight engineers and pilots went on about their day. Scrubbing the aircraft down and sanitizing it, the red blood washing away from the black metal of the helicopter. After they had done that, it was back to the ready room. Food, entertainment, lavatories, all of it had to be there. The Pararescuemen had to be within sprinting distance of the helicopters.

Hours passed by and the eight were lounging around in their office chairs. The room was cooled by large air conditioners and on the tables were TV dinner like trays devoid of food. They sat in a wooden box awaiting their next call, and wait they did.

"Leroy Jenkins!" the automated audio alarm blared before the voice spoke, "Pedros, scramble, scramble, scramble."

"There's our next call!" Gary yelled, jumping out of his seat and out the door. Towards the helicopter.

"Putting our lives on the line so that others might live!" John screamed after him, the Hawaiian sprinting just behind him.

This was his life.

His life as a pararescueman.


	6. You Can't Save Everyone

AN: Thanks to Master Elite and damnationSUSHItruck for reviewing the entire collection. This is a sequel to 'Life of a Pararescumen', set much later in Hume's deployment. I can't promise what I'll write next since it's entirely by mood. But as always, please read and review. And obviously, enjoy.

* * *

You Can't Save Everyone

Another day, another possible life waiting to be saved. It has been two months into deployment and yet nothing too gruesome had shown up. Okay, maybe gruesome but not soul maiming. Senior Airmen John Hume sat idly in his chair while throwing a tennis ball at the wall opposite of him.

His helicopter's Combat Rescue Officer, Gary, was in his own officer's cubicle separated from the enlisted men. He often joined the rowdy grunts but for today, he was talking to his wife back home. Richard Smith, the team's newly christened rookie, stared blankly into a news channel reporting the war. The British female news anchor thanking the Pararescuemen for rescuing the documentary host from under enemy fire and delivering her to relative safety along with much needed medical care. Steven Finn, the team's third most seasoned veteran, was fooling around in the computer room.

One of the lead helicopter's men were mess around with each other, the two trying to have staple wars from their chairs. Such were one of war's most forgotten tragedies: Boredom.

"I almost got you!" one of them screamed, "fucking close!"

"Bruce," Hume muttered with boredom as he continued throwing the ball, "better stop it before you staple your balls to the chair."

"Like hell I will," Bruce shot back before his friend landed a quick blow to the crotch of his service trousers, nailing the fabric to the chair.

"Woo!" Bruce's friend, Tony, yelled in victory, "nailed it!"

"Ha ha, very funny T," Bruce replied with a low mumble.

Then, the alarm rang out accompanied by an audio clip, "Leroy Jenkins!"

"Fuck," Bruce screamed as he tried to unpin his trousers' crotch from the staple, "I'm stuck!"

"I told you so," Hume laughed, running out the door and towards the helicopter.

The seventy meter sprint towards the flight line was nothing short of explosive. Each second counted as the timer ticked down for the wounded. With his heart pounding against his chest from the short sprint, Hume threw on his plate carrier and radio headset. He watched the pilots getting into their seats as he donned his helmet. One unified whirl from both engines signaled that the helicopter was starting up. The blades slowly turned before speeding up into an air chopping roar. Hume clipped himself into the helicopter's intercom system, the combat rescue airmen finishing his final gear check. He sat on the helicopter's passenger deck with his legs dangling down from the side.

"Pedro 3-2 spooled up and ready for lift off," the pilot reported on the intercom.

"Pedro 3-1, ditto here," the pilot of the flight's lead helicopter replied.

Hume slipped on his Oakley sunglasses while waiting next to Gary for the helicopter to lift off. A minute passed, then two, nothing happened. Hume waited anxiously for the helicopter flight to taxi to the short runway. His right index finger was tapping against his M4 Carbine's magazine well in impatience. The wounded's life counter was ticking down each second they sat here doing nothing on the flight line.

Hume turned to Gary and asked, "What the fuck are we waiting for?!"

"Don't know!" Gary yelled back.

"And what does MIST say?!" Hume asked once again.

"Afghan boy, GSW to torso, MIST doesn't say where specifically!" Gary answered back, consulting the small PDA tucked away in the depths of his vest.

"Hey PJs," the co-pilot said and looked back from the cockpit, "we're still on standby. Boss is trying to confirm whether or not the kid's up to MEDROE."

MEDROE or Medical Rules of Eligibility were changed in recent years. Before, the Pararescue could pick up injured Afghan children and Afghan citizens alike. Now, only those who were in critical condition, like from a bullet wound to the head, were eligible to be picked up by the helicopters. This, in John's opinion, was an unwelcomed change. Every life counts, no matter the nationality. And the team's motto, 'That Others Might Live', would not be fulfilled in the slightest. Only those hit by accidental fire from the United States Forces were allowed to be picked up in addition to the critically wounded.

A sense of frustration started to swelter inside the Senior Airmen.

"Anything from Command?!" Gary yelled into the headset's microphone.

"No," the pilot replied with a sigh, "nothing dude."

"This is frustrating," Richard muttered into the microphone.

"Damn right it is," Finn sighed back an answer.

Another fifteen or so minutes passed before an answer arrived, "uh…stand down, stand down," the pilot said.

"What? Why?!" Richard yelled back angrily.

"Kid got shot by the Taliban, not us," the pilot replied as the shut down the helicopter.

"God damn it!" Richard screamed, "we could have helped him."

"Could have, would have, should have," Finn said, patting the rookie's shoulder, "we're in the military and have orders to follow Rich. We aren't Doctors Without Borders."

Hume clipped the carabiner attached to the butt stock of his rifle to the rear wall of the MH-60M. The rear wall held all the medical equipment they needed to keep a person alive during the trip to the NATO or Afghan hospital. The eight pararescue airmen walked back towards the command center in disappointment. With the gear still on, they entered the air-conditioned room with the hope of the call would once again come for them to save the kid's life.

"What happened?" John asked the question of which he already knew the answer to his commanding officer, Captain Derek McHale.

"Not up to fucking MEDROE," Captain McHale sighed and rubbed his face in frustration.

"Wish we could have done something about it still," Richard muttered with silent frustration.

"Could have, but what if another call comes in during that child's rescue? Mass casualties and tango one patients?" Captain McHale shot back to a silent Richard. Tango One patients were those in need of immediate surgery to save their lives and were number one priorities.

"Leroy Jenkins!" the alarm blared once again.

"All Pedros, scramble, scramble, scramble," the dispatch spoke into a microphone stand above a stack of military radios.

"There's your other call, now chop, chop PJs," Captain McHale said and clapped his hands twice to shoo the airmen out.

The pilots, who were just taking off their helmets after a post-flight check, even though they didn't get off the ground, were once again donning the metal brain buckets. Hume climbed back into the helicopter's passenger bay and sat down by the lip of the deck. He grabbed his rifle before quickly giving a thumbs-up to the flight engineer whom was clipping the Maxillofacial Shield to his helmet. The Maxillofacial Shield or simply, the MFS, was a small metal mask that covered the wearer's lower face from debris and dust during flight operations and allows for a microphone to be placed inside for better radio communications.

Hume watched as the other three members of the rescue unit quickly climb aboard and slam their fists into the side of the helicopter's skin to signal that they were ready. It took a few minutes for the helicopter to spool up again, but this time, they had the go signal. The MH-60M jerked forward before turning left and towards the runway. Before long, they were rolling forward and into the air. The helicopter slowly cruised from the tarmac, gaining speed and banking left towards, what John remembered was, Kandahar City.

"MIST updates!" Gary screamed into his microphone over the chopping of the rotor blades, "mass casualties of twelve! Confirmed one Afghan child, two Afghan National Soldiers and two American Soldiers! Others still unknown, but these guys are CAT Alphas!"

Category Alphas were critically wounded. They needed to be rescued within the golden hour or the risk of losing them multiplies by the minute. Hume slid himself back into the passenger bay as soon as the helicopters were flying at their designated altitude and pulled the doors forward, closing them. The four of them start preparing blood packs and IV bags with IV lines already hooked up. Hume pulled off his combat gloves and pulled on black medical ones in anticipation of a bloodied patient. It was about fifteen minutes from Kandahar Air Base to Kandahar City and even more with headwind.

"I don't like this," the new co-pilot, Sam, was a new recruit just like Richard, "looks like an ambush to me."

"I know what you're saying," their pilot, Ben, replied, "it doesn't sit well with me."

"Berettas chambered when we go in?" Sam asked.

"Definitely dude," Ben breathed a reply.

Incidents like this were bullet magnets from the Taliban. Blow up civilian and military targets, wait for the choppers to pick them up and blow them up too. Much higher casualty rates and a much higher payoff, the chopper's M2 Browning door guns were here to make sure that didn't happen. Hume watched the cockpit to see Ben pull out his M9 Beretta and rack the slide to chamber a round. Sam was flying the route today, just because he's the co-pilot doesn't mean he didn't fly. Everyone had to gain experience.

Hume checked his watch.

1628 Hours.

"We're ten mikes out," Ben said, "make ready."

Hume watched the two flight engineers unlock their M2 Browning's from the downed position. Both racked the charging handle to chamber the large fifty caliber round, test firing them on the mountain range they were flying overhead. Left and right door guns fired with a loud thumping, much louder than the rotor blades.

"Left gun ready," one of the flight engineers reported.

"Right gun ready," the other said.

"Are you sure Leo?" Ben asked, teasing the flight engineer, "it's not going to be like the first time we deployed right?"

"Fuck no Ben," Leo replied, "this time it's working for sure."

"If you say so dude," Ben said as the city of Kandahar revealed itself behind the mountains.

"Five mikes," the pilot warned.

Hume threw open the right door, preparing to jump out either side as soon as the helicopter touched down. Below them, the plains of Afghanistan were filled with life. Shepherds herding sheep, men working in the fields and women walking to and from the towns to buy groceries. It all seemed a bit backwards. One couldn't imagine a world without electricity, running water or even the internet. You could say it was like being back in the Stone Age. Even the kids were happy with a single toy camera. Hell, even a simple toy would suffice.

"This is strange," Ben muttered into the radio, "I can't raise command or the ground forces."

"Do you think they're jamming?" Sam asked.

"Don't know. Have you been to Kandahar City before?" Ben replied.

"Negative," Sam stated.

"Do you want me to fly the approach dude? It could get pretty hot."

After a short pause, Sam replied, "Yeah, okay."

Hume's stomach started to fill up with butterflies. He wasn't normally nervous, but this was bad. American forces jamming communications means the loss of time for the injured and the fact that they were under such heavy fire that the jamming needed to be done. He felt the helicopter shift underneath him, the metal beast banking left to orbit in a counter clockwise pattern. Cracks from below were telltale signs of a gunfight. It was going to be hot when they go in.

"Jason!" Gary yelled into his headset microphone, "we'll pick up the kid and the two Afghan forces okay?"

No answer.

"Jason?!" Gary yelled once again, "screw this noise."

"Jamming's messing with flight communications," Ben replied.

"Can you level out so I can signal Pedro 3-1's CRO?" Gary asked.

"I can try," Ben said with a nod.

Hume watched as the formation lights and anti-collision lights on the MH-60M flash on for a short two or so seconds. The lead helicopter of the flight leveled out, allowing their chopper to catch up. Gary came face to face with Jason, the lead helicopter's CRO. Flying in close formation was dangerous but it was the only way to communicate information across to the other team. Gary started flashing his fingers in sign language with Jason responding in kind. It was a brief moment of silent communication between the two team leaders. A blast back to the dark ages.

"I. Will. Pick. Up. The. Kid. And. The. Two. Afghans," Gary muttered silently into the microphone.

"Jason, Gary, you copy?!" the transmission came back through.

"What the fuck is happening?" Gary screamed at the pilots.

"Jamming's let up," Ben quickly replied, "I'm getting information as we speak."

"I'll pick up the two kids and the Afghans, you get the two American forces and the rest of the casualties!" Gary yelled at Jason sitting only a dozen or so feet away from him in the other helicopter.

Jason gave him a thumbs-up.

"Pedro 3-2, Pedro 3-1, breaking off and entering orbit pattern," Ben reported.

"Roger that Pedro 3-2, 1's cover."

The helicopter banked hard left, bringing the aircraft over the outskirts of the city. Hume looked back to see tracers shooting from the roads into the city. The red tracers were American soldiers firing off their machine guns. It looked like four to five armored vehicles were trying to protect the wounded men. The landing zone would be lit up in an instant, but they didn't have the luxury of time anymore.

"Okay PJs," Ben said as he took over the flight controls, "exit's on the left and expect the LZ to be super-hot."

"Roger that," Gary yelled, "bring us in Ben!"

"Check," Ben said calmly, "prepare for a brown out."

The MH-60M flew straight, away from the landing zone before turning hard left back towards the small convoy of vehicles. Gary and Hume were to be the first ones out, Gary being the CRO and Hume being the most experienced enlisted Pararescuemen. Strong winds from the rotor blades were directed down and into the dust, sand and dirt. A rolling storm of dust started to expand from the center like a tsunami of dirt. The dust enveloped the helicopter as it neared the ground, the pilots trusting the radar altimeter to show how far they were from the ground.

"Twenty, fifteen, ten…five, three, two, brace. Back, front, brakes." Ben reported the helicopter's altitude as they touched down.

Hume felt the helicopter jerk violently as they smacked into the ground. Gary and he were the first two out the side of the helicopter. The dust cloud made by the rotors made it impossible to see anything further than six feet in front of them. Hume took a knee and raised his rifle, creating a defensive perimeter while they took cover inside the helicopter's arc of fire. Just as Gary tried to move out of the helicopter's 'rotor disk' or the area where the rotor blades were spinning, a loud thud quickly made Hume extend out his arm with his hand curled into a fist. It was their sign for everyone to freeze.

"What the fuck was that?!" Finn screamed into the microphone.

Hume turned to Sam to see the co-pilot waving the airmen forwards and left from the rotor disk. Cautious, the four men slowly ventured out from the safety of the helicopter's M2 Browning Machine Gun. As the airmen got further away from the rotor blades, the dust started to clear with American forces hunching over six stretchers. Gary immediately ran to the medic in charge of the wounded to get information. Hume, Finn and Richard would triage the most wounded and take them on first. It was decided that the child and two of the most wounded Afghan soldiers would be on the trail helicopter.

"Go in, and then straight left at a ninety degree to the chopper!" Hume instructed a pair of American and Afghan soldiers holding the child's stretcher.

"Hume!" Gary screamed for him, "I need a-"

The crackling of bullets cut Gary's sentence short as three rounds struck the side of the heavily armored patrol vehicle. Hume lifted his rifle to take aim at the attackers. They were firing from the city. Hume squeezed the trigger twice to retaliate. The M240 machine guns from the patrol vehicles opened up with a steady thumping. Another deeper, louder and slower thump exploded from the dust storm. The MH-60M's M2 Browning was unleashing fifty caliber rounds into the city. Giant bullets hurled at the walls demolished the concrete like Lego pieces. While the helicopter was covering the four airmen, Hume grabbed hold of one of the stretchers and walked it into the dust storm. The three stretchers gave the four men just enough space to move around the patients.

Gary was the last on as the helicopter was about lift off. Hume slid the left door shut and gave the flight engineer a thumbs-up, jabbing the air and told him to lift off. The helicopter didn't and continued to sit on the ground as the right door gunner continued to hammer the enemy with his Browning. Hume didn't wait, he immediately uncurled one of the five blood bags hanging from the communication lines running along the ceiling of the helicopter in preparation for Gary's command.

"Hume, you get the guy in the middle. Finn, the guy on the right," Gary yelled into microphone, "Richard and I will get the kid!"

"Check!" Finn screamed in reply.

Hume was spiking the blood pack's line into the IV of the Afghan man when Gary asked, "why the fuck aren't we dusting off?!"

"We have no comms with Pedro 3-1 or Command!" the left door gunner replied, "someone needs to go tell the ground commander to turn off his jammer until we get at least five miles out!"

Hume, being the closest to the door, volunteered.

"Richard," Hume tapped the rookie's shoulder, "take over for me!"

"You got it!" the young man said without hesitation.

Hume slammed the door open again to get a face full of dust, the air was moving fast and hard. The gale buffeted his body and tore at his uniform as he walked back out to the vehicles. Two men were still waiting for the second helicopter. Time was ticking down. Hume yelled at the Corporal to get his ground commander. One Captain ran out from the chaos of troopers returning fire. The only thing keeping the enemy from getting a clear shot on the soldiers and vice versa, was Hume's Blackhawk. The dust storm from the rotor blades obscured all vision.

"What is it soldier?" the Captain screamed.

"I need you to stop the jamming sir!" Hume replied, "We can't get a single transmission out to the hospitals or command. Your two soldiers there will die without it!"

"If we turn it off, the Taliban will be able to coordinate their strikes!" the Captain rebuked.

"You have to turn it off sir! Your men. Will. Die. Mid-flight," Hume emphasized, the Captain took precious seconds to think.

"Alright," he finally said, "but as soon as that second bird gets in the air, we're turning it on."

"Roger that sir!" Hume nodded, finally some was being done.

The Senior Airmen got back onto the Blackhawk and lifted off not so soon after. There was a whine in the engines, the turbines roaring as the rotors worked overtime to lift all eleven men inside into the air. Bellowing clouds of dust subsided as the aircraft skimmed low over the desert plains before ascending into the air, circling above the site to provide cover for the leading helicopter. Hume was hunched over the Afghan soldier, he was in a worse state than he had imagined. With two legs amputated and the bleeding still not stopped, he was going to die.

Pedro 3-2 banked left, giving the right flight engineer a break as the left M2 opened up on the enemies below. Hume was giving the Afghan soldier transfused blood but, it wasn't nearly enough. The soldier moaned in pain and rolled over. His right hand being held onto by the comrade next to him. Right then and there, he heaved all of his lunch onto the stretcher. Bits of rice, meat and who knows what splattered the green fabric.

Head trauma.

The man was fading fast.

"Ben!" Hume screamed at the top of his lung, "this guy's Tango One!"

Tango One or in critical need of surgery.

"The kid's also Tango One!" Gary screamed, "we need to get to Role 3 (NATO Hospital) immediately!"

"Pedro 3-1, Pedro 3-2, requesting we peel off and head for Hero (Afghan Hospital)," Ben asked the lead helicopter's pilot.

"Roger that, go for Hero," the radio transmission came.

The helicopter banked hard right, making the soldier roll back. Hume placed a hand on his heart. It was barely beating. By now, blood had speed everywhere on the deck. His pants, the black metal deck and the stretcher were all drenched in blood. The man alone had taken in two entire blood packs. Hume pulled out two more tourniquets from the back of the helicopter. He wrapped the black Velcro cloth around both of his amputated legs, trying to stop the bleeding.

"Why the fuck are we not going to Role 3?!" Gary screamed.

"Just give me a second dude," Ben replied, "I'm trying to get us to vector to Role 3. Sam, take over."

"Roger," the co-pilot replied.

Then, the inevitable happened. Hume saw no movement from the man's lung.

"He's not breathing!" Hume yelled out.

He placed his right index and middle finger on the man's neck.

No pulse, nothing.

Hume placed his mouth over his, a metallic taste filling it, and started to breathe air into the soldier. Blood welled from his mouth and made Hume's lips slick with dripping red liquid. CPR compressions came quickly after trying to restart his heart. Hume could feel the sternum bones cracking underneath his hands.

Still nothing.

His hands grabbed a portable defibrillator. Scrambling, he pulled out the two shock paddles, placing one near the left shoulder and the other right below his right chest muscle. Hume pushed the buttons. There was slight tensing of the man's muscles, but nothing. He tried again, waiting for the device to recharge. Another try. The man tensed, no jolting magic working medicine like in the movies here.

Nothing.

Two charges, it was time to give up, "he's gone."

"Package him up and switch with Richard!" Gary yelled, "Rich, go help Finn with the other guy!"

Hume wrapped a thermal blanket over him, making sure to leave his face open to air. Sometimes after people die, they do come back to life. He hoped that this was the same case. Hume then placed an open body back underneath before shifting his attention to the child. Gary was still trying to get an IV into the boy's thin veins. He switched to an IO, a blood transfusion device that would deliver blood straight into the bone marrow. It was mostly effective, but extremely agonizing and painful.

"We're green for Role 3," Ben reported.

"Great!" Gary screamed back in frustrated concentration.

The CRO jabbed the long needle into the boy's leg. Just as the needle touched the bone, the boy let out a blood curling scream. One that was filled solely with mind numbing pain. Gary eased off before trying again. Another agonizing scream came from the boy, he pushed the IO device away and latched his hand onto Hume's right medical gloved hand. The young boy held on tightly to the airmen. Hume looked up to Gary and shook his head. The pain was too much for the child to endure, he'd have to try an IV with the other arm.

"I'm going to try and spike his right arm!" Hume screamed.

"Do it fast," Gary replied, "we need to get hypertonic saline into him!"

Hypertonic Saline would help ease the pressure crushing the boy's head from the gun shot wound. He was bandaged up well and close to no blood was leaking from the bandages. Using both hands, Hume slowly positioned the needle over the boy's vein. The boy's right hand was gripped tightly to his rolled up sleeve. There was a pause before Hume jabbed the needle into his elbow. Some blood spilled out of the IV needle but not too much.

"I got it!" Hume said and inserted a tube from the Saline bag into the IV.

"We're close to Role 3!" Ben warned, "five mikes out!"

"Start packaging!" Gary screamed the order.

Hume helped Gary strap the boy into the stretcher and stroked his head gently with bloodied gloves. With a single nod, Hume communicated a thousand words in a short time span and reassured the child. He would grow up, maybe unable to work, unable to love a woman or have a child. But it was a life he would give to him no less. Every life was worth saving.

"Three mikes," Ben reported.

Hume shifted his focus to the dead soldier. Normally, if it was an American soldier, there would be rituals in place during the flight back. A flag would be given and last rites would be bestowed to the departing soldier. But here, to the Afghan soldier, no one knew what they had to do. The Afghans never gave them a procedure to follow. Hume could do nothing for him. He checked the man's pulse one last time.

Dead.

Out of respect as a fellow soldier and combatant, he zipped up the body bag covering his face and placed a hand on his chest. Under his breath, Hume a few words to send on his way and gave a minute of silence. As the helicopter neared the NATO hospital, Hume said his last words and turned around towards the door. The MH-60M pitched up and slowed down while descending to land. There was a sudden jolt as the back wheel contacted the runway before both of the front wheels slammed into the tarmac. Gray flung the left door open and rushed the kid along with the wounded man towards the hands of the ambulance personnel. Hume waited patiently for the second ambulance to stop. Its occupants came rushing out from the back, ready to receive the wounded.

"He's KIA!" Hume screamed to the rushing men and women.

They nodded in reply, understanding that they didn't need to rush. While Gary and Finn whizzed away in their ambulance, Hume carried the dead soldier's stretcher personally. He wanted the man to be delivered to the hospital safely and back to his family for burial. Hume could hear the sirens of the other truck when they neared the NATO hospital. He got off with the stretcher. Another friendly face greeted him.

Green eyes and flowing red hair, this was Captain Claire Whitman's first tour to Afghanistan. At the age of twenty four, just like Hume, she had just completed her medical degree with the Army and was shipped to Afghanistan to help with the NATO hospital. The parajumper had met her on his second batch of wounded. Nothing more than a friendly hello and thanks every now and then.

One day, the two met off shift. While Claire was waking up for her shift at five in the morning, John on the other hand, had to go to bed but couldn't sleep. He was having nightmares from pervious tours of duty. She invited him for a cup of coffee and from then on, things got serious for the two of them. Claire would visit John at the ready room after work, since the Senior Airmen had to stay until after midnight for his shift to be over.

"Rough day today?" Claire asked, trying to comfort him by rubbing his arm.

"You could say that…" Hume sighed and let the medical personnel take care of the body.

Hume gave a final salute as they carried the body into the hospital.

"Guy died on the flight here," Hume said with a grim smile.

"You can't save them all," Claire whispered.

"I know."

It was a few minutes before Jason's team brought in the two other wounded. Garbled transmissions made the mass casualties turn into five CAT Alpha wounded. Hume hung around the front with Claire, trying to catch whatever time he could with her. Even though there was a serious air hanging around the hospital personnel, Claire gave him a bottle of water and chatted with the slightly depressed Pararescuemen. If the helicopter could have landed sooner, if the ground forces weren't jamming their signal, if, if, if. Only ifs, his detachment commander, Kyle had told him to never second guess himself. But still, only if they had landed sooner.

"Thanks guys," Hume heard as the door open, his teammates coming out from the building.

"They Claire," they guys said to the female Army doctor.

"I better go," Hume said and gave her a quick peck to the lips.

"Take care," she replied.

"Claire, now you know public signs of affection are restricted…" Hume heard her friend scold her, the airmen chuckling as the truck drove away.

"The kid and dude will survive," Finn said with a large smile, "no thanks to your flirting with your girlfriend."

"Still wish we could have saved that other guy," Hume said with a sigh and brought a depressing tone over the team.

Back at the ready room, held up a single pair of dog tags to the bright fluorescent lights. It was from a soldier dying in the back of his helicopter. The man had survived from the flight and gave Hume his dog tags as a sign of thanks. A heavy sigh escaped his lips. He looked out the window to see the dark night sky and the flight line lit up by high powered stadium lights. There was a squeak from the door. Hume turned to see Claire with two plastic bags, just like in the United States.

"Hungry?" she asked the man confined to the ready room.

"Yeah," he said with a large smile, "famished."

"I've got fried rice and chicken," Claire replied.

"Really? Didn't know they had that sort of things here."

"It's a commodity, onetime thing by the base's guest chef," Claire said as she unpacked the plastic bags, "And I. Happened to get the last few boxes of it."

"Aw, and nothing for me?" Finn yelled from the computer room.

"Shut the fuck up and get back to your porn Finn, you'll die alone!" Hume yelled at the still single twenty two year old airmen.

"Claire, he's being mean to me!" Finn screamed back.

"Don't mind him…"


End file.
